


his sword, her shield

by clayre



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: (of the physical kind), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, Pining, Pre-Relationship, The Fade, it's about learning to love yourself.........., it's about the yearning............
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:33:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25371700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clayre/pseuds/clayre
Summary: In the Fade, Alistair wakes up first.(A role reversal fic, where Alistair realizes they're trapped in the sloth demon's nightmare instead of the Warden, and he gets to be the dashing hero.)
Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 90





	his sword, her shield

**Author's Note:**

> oh boy, the fade!!! one of my BIGGEST problems with this quest is the Warden and Alistair's dream sequences. i understand coding/scripting a unique dream for every origin might have been too time-intensive, but you're telling ME that the Warden gets a dream with Duncan and Weisshaupt, but Alistair, the man who had wanted SO BADLY to be a Grey Warden and was so proud of the fact, dreams of.... some stranger he'd had yet to meet??? when he and Duncan had a father-son thing going on??? not in my canon!!!!! 🔪
> 
> anyways.. role reversal time. Alistair dreams of Duncan, and the Warden dreams of her family!! and Alistair gets his moment to shine 😌💕 also i WILL warn you that i played kind of fast and loose with the templars-need-lyrium lore/the concept of templars in the fade 😳 
> 
> i go HARD for Alistair being competent!!! i have a LOT of feelings about him and the way he disparages himself 🥺 i'll just leave it at: he's canonically an exceptional warrior, rigorously trained, well-educated, and only 20 years old...... i could go on and on about Alistair trust me. LOL 
> 
> check the end of the notes for a SUPER light CW for this; i don't think it's very bad, but i'd like to put the disclaimer out there just in case anyone finds the scenario uncomfortable!! i promise it's not that bad and it's super quick LOL

Alistair couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so . . . rested. He was used to being several different kinds of aching or sore or tender, but as Duncan led him into Weisshaupt, he just felt _good._ Loose all over, healthy, strong. More than that, though, he felt strangely at peace. Relaxed. He’d go so far as to say _confident,_ as though he was exactly where he had to be ─ and he was. He felt like he was.

“What do you think so far, Alistair?” Duncan asked, tilting his face just a breadth so that he might meet Alistair’s gaze from over his shoulder. He could read the smile in the edges of Duncan’s eye: in the laugh lines of his wrinkles, in the shiny mirth of his warm brown iris, in the relaxed uptilt of his brow. Alistair grinned openly in return.

“It’s massive, I’ll give it that,” he answered, and he rotated on his heel to take in a full view of the impressive fortress. The fold they walked through was tall and just as wide, left open to the air above them. Behind Alistair, just beyond the paddock, was the main fortress: it almost reminded him of a chantry, a grand cathedral sprawling high over their heads, looking exactly like a drawing he’d seen in one of the Grey Wardens’ treatises while he was settling in as the junior member of the order. Inlaid along the main building were impressive, dramatic arches, bevies of pointed buttresses reinforcing the walls in imposing cuts of ancient stone. Swaths of arcading bordered them from either side, and Alistair breathed out, “Erected in -305 Ancient, and still standing sturdy. Those Grey Wardens of old were very serious about their architecture. Good thing, too.”

The way Duncan looked at him was wry, but there was pride in his voice when he said, “Exactly so, Alistair. I’m pleased you remember.” Alistair swept into a low bow, though he took advantage of the theatrics to hide his blush. “These grand halls were built by the first Grey Wardens, and now, all these years later, it is our turn to occupy them. Isn’t it breathtaking?”

It was. So much history was embedded into these walls, built into the very limestone mortar that held the slabs together, and Alistair was always a quick study; at the abbey, he’d pored over any book he could get his hands on, though most of them were, admittedly, religious in nature. He’d taken to the education portion of his training with enthusiasm, and he’d been a model initiate in that regard ─ unfortunately, he’d made himself rather unpopular in every other aspect, even as learned as he was. He could remember his Knight-Commander scowling at him whenever he’d talk back to the brothers, or when he shouted because the silence was disturbing him and he felt like he’d burst otherwise, or when he grew bored during prayer. He’d been called _wilful._ Even his commitment to the education, his eye for detail, and his strong memory couldn’t excuse the mouth nor the attitude he had on him, according to his Commander. He was just a troublemaker.

“Yes,” he said to Duncan as he looked over the monumental partitions, “it’s incredible. I can hardly believe I’m standing here now.” He watched himself drag the toe of his boot along the ground, the metal scratching along the brick. “Ancient Grey Wardens once walked the path I’m walking. Really makes a guy feel small, in the grand scheme of things.”

Perhaps the Chamberlain of the Grey would let him get his hands on some of the archives kept here, so that he might actually read the records of the first Grey Wardens of Thedas, the founders of the order. The thought made him _hungry,_ and he whirled eagerly back to Duncan, mouth open to ask ─ but he paused when he met Duncan’s eyes.

He had stopped walking, and he was studying Alistair very hard in that discerning way he got about him when he was figuring something out. He took one step, two steps away, holding his hand out in a signal for Alistair to remain where he was standing, and he drank in the sight of him. A smile, gentle and satisfied in nature, slowly spread out over his mouth. “You belong here, Alistair,” he told him.

Alistair could feel heat rising in his cheeks and his mouth snapped shut. He tried to play it off. “Do I?” Despite his efforts to remain casual, he knew he was flushing pink, and he sounded touched even to himself. He felt gawky and clumsy and almost unworthy of the sentiment under Duncan’s scrutiny. “I was so proud when you chose me, did I ever tell you that? After the tourney? Even though I lost . . .”

Duncan’s eyes went soft, and he inclined his head. “I was proud to choose you.” Alistair had never seen him smile so freely before. “The tournament meant very little; the victor was never promised a place here. I needed a man with skill and integrity. You were both, and I’m proud of you. You make a fine Grey Warden, Alistair, you always have. You were crucial in stopping the Blight. I do not know if it could have been done without you.” He neared Alistair again. “I certainly wouldn’t be standing here, if not for you and your, ahem, _reckless_ aid. I’m glad you’ve recovered from the wound you took on my behalf ─ if anything had happened to you . . .” The words trailed off, but Duncan’s eyes were serious and intense, and his hand had found a place on Alistair’s pauldron ─ before, a little awkwardly, he patted Alistair’s cheek twice, quickly. “Well. Thank you. You may feel a great many thing, Alistair, but you must never feel small.” Then he left his side. “But for my sake, don’t do it again.”

His heart was aching in his ribs, and he nodded, short, trying to swallow around the tight constriction of his throat. “Right,” he said weakly, running a hand through his hair and sneakily scrubbing his gloved wrist against his cheek, the corner of his eye, hoping he was subtle in how he wiped the wetness away as it was welling up, “of course. I ─ thank you. Too, I mean. Thank you, too, is what I was trying to say.” Duncan laughed, broad and strong in its sound, and he nodded for his recruit to follow him into the fortress. Alistair slowly drifted along behind him, taking the moment to try and get some of his dignity back by shifting one of his gloves down; hidden inside it, pressed into the meat of his palm, was the cast rune he’d picked up after a skirmish with darkspawn, when he was newly minted. Its surface was worn away: his thumb fit perfectly into the divot there when he rubbed it, and he turned his attention back to the walk as he worried the runic token with his fingers, fidgeting through the choked up feeling Duncan had given him. The entry of Weisshaupt sat proud and strong just a few hundred feet in front of them, and he focused on the shape of those massive doors, breathing slow and deep to compose himself; the anticipation from finally being inside this historic, legendary fortress had him glowing with excitement, his pace turning faster, and faster, until he nearly overtook Duncan’s own gait. He hadn’t realized it was possible to be this happy, and he replayed Duncan’s words over and over in his head while they walked: Duncan was proud of him, he was crucial in stopping the Blight ─

He faltered in his step, bobbing forward as his legs suddenly refused to keep moving. He was crucial in stopping the Blight. He was crucial in saving Duncan’s life. Had he saved Duncan?

Why couldn’t he remember saving Duncan?

“Still sore?” he asked kindly, passing Alistair by breezily. He realized that, no, he wasn’t sore. He felt fucking amazing, actually. Duncan continued before he had the chance to tell him so. “Well, you’ll rest once we’re settled in. Now that you’ve recovered, there’s much left to do, so we’ll have to be sure to take advantage of the time we have to allow you to recuperate completely.”

“The Blight,” Alistair said, tongue thick in his mouth suddenly. “You said we ─ we stopped it?”

Duncan looked at him strangely from over his shoulder. “Yes, we did. Are you all right, Alistair? Hm. It _was_ a very grisly wound; you must still be exhausted. You’ve healed enough to walk, but I suppose I haven’t given you much time to get your bearings. I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard. I apologize.” Alistair nodded slowly, but he couldn’t remember where he had been wounded, and why it wouldn’t be hurting. What sort of wound? What weapon? Why couldn’t he remember any of it? Duncan had closed the distance between them, his hand on the small of Alistair’s back as he gently urged him along. “Come. Let’s go inside so that you might get some rest. Ah, however, the Wardens will not be idle even with the threat of the archdemon dealt with, if that’s what you mean. There’s still . . .”

Alistair could hear Duncan explaining that the Grey Wardens would be keepers of history as they walked, but he wasn’t listening anymore. When he looked back to the doors of Weisshaupt, it was no longer excitement that he felt, but dread. Something lurked within those doors, and it was dangerous, and hungry. He studied the stone beneath their feet, hard, and found nothing strange, and when he watched their boots as they walked, they echoed through the empty hallways with perfectly normal cadence. It wasn’t until he looked out the large, open spaces of the fortress that he realized he couldn’t see any dunes, no sand cresting through the wind ─ in fact, he felt no wind at all, nor heat. Chancing another glance down, he could see he was wearing the Grey Warden crest, adorned in silver heavy armor, and it was clean and polished. The deep blue of his brigandine was pressed and tidy from beneath his plate, and he ran a hand over it experimentally: heavy and leather, as he expected.

But he wasn’t hot.

Weisshaupt was in the Southern Anderfels. In the desert. He wiped at his forehead, and his gloves came away dry. No sweat, then. He rubbed his fingers together, squinting as he felt the bare friction of leather against leather, not a single drop of lubricant between the pads of his fingers. How did he get here without sweating? He didn’t remember making the walk from Ferelden to the fortress; he couldn’t even remember entering. He couldn’t remember their arrival, and he couldn’t remember where he’d been wounded because he felt so good, he couldn’t remember throwing himself in front of Duncan and evidently saving his life, he couldn’t remember ending the Blight ─ Maker’s breath, he couldn’t even remember half an hour ago.

The worry token glinted in his hand as he turned it over, scanning it, and he slipped it back into his glove, nestled safely and comfortingly against the back of his hand.

 _All right, Alistair,_ he thought to himself nervously, and he aimed a tight, hopefully reassuring smile at Duncan when the man looked to him as he spoke. _All right. This is simple enough. What_ **_can_ ** _I remember?_ Duncan said the Blight was won . . . but no. That wasn’t possible. The last thing he remembered _was_ the Blight: he had the dreams where he’d seen the archdemon, and Ferelden was fractured and ill prepared to deal with the horde. The darkspawn threat demanded the treaties ─ yes, that’s right, the Grey Warden treaties. They were gathering an army to ─

 _They._ Alistair snapped his head up, searching for her. Duncan had stopped talking. “Where is ─”

“Inside.” Duncan’s brows rose steadily, and Alistair felt strangely bare, vulnerable. “Eager, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” Alistair answered, dumbly, and then he shook his head, a little frantic. “Er, no. I just ─ I feel strange. Something’s wrong here.”

Duncan eased near him. “I’m not surprised. You must be exhausted,” he echoed sternly. “It’s been a long journey for all of us ─ but longest for you, of all. Come, let’s go inside. She’s just as eager to see you.”

“She is?” Alistair’s mouth felt dry, and _there_ it was ─ the familiar ache in his bones, a soreness from things going wrong in battle. His right bicep itched; there was a wound there, he remembered, plastered with poultice and a bandage. It was healing ─ but he hadn’t gotten this wound protecting Duncan. He’d thrown his sword arm out and took a knife into his bicep, to keep it from plunging into the Warden’s head, and he remembered snapping at her to wear her _“Maker-given helmet, you stubborn woman.”_ She’d grabbed at him, too hard, squeezing the wound, and he could so clearly picture the frenzied look in her eyes as she tried to dam the bleeding ─ why couldn’t he remember anything else? His hand drifted to his arm, covering the spot gently, and then he dug his thumb into it, hard. The burst of pain made the world seem . . . greener.

Something in Duncan’s jaw twitched, tense, and then he smiled kindly. “Ah,” he said, gesturing towards the entrance, “there she is now.”

Disoriented, Alistair turned around, and . . . there she was. The Warden, the devastating blue of her eyes brought out by the cobalt of her own Grey Warden brigandine, her dark hair framing her face, perfect and clear. She trooped up to them from the gates of the fortress, purposeful in her brisk stride, aimed at Alistair like an arrow about to hit its mark. He felt his nausea ease as he looked at her and, despite the fuzziness in his head, he found himself smiling, genuine and broad. The pain in his arm had dulled from its throb, and he was sure of himself again when the Warden grinned back at him.

Once the Warden reached him, she threw her arms around his neck without any word, and then she kissed him. The press of her mouth shocked a muffled hum out of him, a pitched little _“mm!”_ that he might have been embarrassed of, if he knew what the fuck was happening. He caught her around the middle by instinct, keeping her balanced against him with only his hands in as gentlemanly a fashion he could manage, but the kiss was over as soon as it came, chaste and sweet and not at all how he expected to be greeted. Nervous, shy laughter boiled out of him when she tilted her head back to look at him, as though she was drawing it out of him as she went, and she felt obscenely good against him: sturdy and warm and short enough that her body slotted perfectly into his own. When he breathed her in, she smelled like metal polish and sunlight ─ and sort of static. Something wasn’t right. He couldn’t remember why she would have kissed him.

“You’re here,” she breathed, like she couldn’t believe it. “Finally! It’s been awfully dull without you, you know. None of the others here keep me on my toes quite as you do. I’ve missed you.” She leaned back, her arms still poised on his shoulders. Alistair gaped down at her stupidly, his own hands resting on the curves of her waist. “Terribly rude, to keep a lady waiting,” she scolded him, her mouth curving into a grin that had him feeling lightheaded, and he smiled back drunkenly. “You’ll make it up to me, won’t you?”

“I . . .” Her hand was tender in his hair, and she carded her fingers up along his temple, brushing loose blond strands away from his forehead. Whatever he was going to say died in his throat, and the leather of her glove was cool on his burning cheek. Dimly, Alistair was aware that Duncan was privy to this display, but he couldn’t pull his eyes away from the Warden.

“Don’t worry me like that,” she said, soft. Even as she chastised him, however, her cheeks dimpled from her grin. “I’m so proud of you, and so angry all at once. Really, Alistair, I mean it. No more heroics if you can help it; I don’t know how I could stand it if something worse happened to you.” He wanted to ask what had happened in general, because he certainly couldn’t remember being so badly hurt, but she was cheerfully going on. “I’ll just have to get them to assign us both to the same Thaw Hunt patrol. I can’t very well watch your back if you’re not with me, can I?”

The Thaw Hunt? Alistair blinked, his daze momentarily suspended. That’s right. Duncan had said the Blight was over, but he’d remembered the treaties and . . . he pulled his hands away from the Warden like she’d burned him. She edged back a little further to study his face, frowning, and she looked confused and hurt. She shouldn’t have been. They weren’t ─ she wasn't ─ he hadn’t had the courage to tell her how he felt. He remembered. She couldn’t have known.

Not that he _felt._ No, of course not. Well ─ he was interested. That’s all it was. She was pretty, and they were friends who would occasionally _banter,_ and sometimes the mind would wander on long journeys. Perhaps they would “banter” more than occasionally, if he were being very frank, but that wasn’t important. She certainly didn’t feel the same, and she never would have greeted him the way she greeted him, not in the slightest, and he looked the Warden up and down as he tried to parse through why she was here, and why she’d have kissed him.

“Duncan said you were inside,” was what he said, suspiciously. “But you came from the entrance.”

“Don’t be foolish, Alistair,” Duncan chimed in, almost a little too fast, and Alistair glanced at him from over his shoulder. He was smiling ─ but it was strange. All of this was strange. “She must have thought to meet us outside, and we simply missed each other. You’re foggy, you need to rest.”

He was most certainly foggy, and the wound he’d agitated was throbbing again. The Warden’s palm soothed over his face, turning his head back to her, and her other hand gently cupped his own. Something about her seemed so off, like she wasn’t really herself; like she was pretending to be someone else. “Alistair,” she said, hushed, and he lifted his eyes to look at her, “are you all right? Maybe you should lie down. Let me take you to ─”

Alistair wasn’t listening. He was combing through what he could remember of the treaties; they needed an army, for the Blight. They were going to the Circle. They’d crossed Lake Calenhad, and the hold was in chaos. Abominations roaming the halls, mages and templars dying on every floor. Greagoir was threatening to annul them all, and the Warden had viciously refused and demanded he let her inside so that she might end the threat herself, _Templar cowards, Blight take you._ He was with her then, he remembered it so clearly now that he was thinking about it. The blood mages had orchestrated the massacre, and they needed the Litany to defend against the mages’ mind domination. How did he get from there, to here?

 _Ah,_ he realized. _This is the Fade._ It had all flooded back to him; they needed the Litany, and a fellow had some sort of scroll with the invocation scrawled on it, and they were seeking him out. _Of course._ The Sloth Demon. He was asleep right now ─ they all were. All at once, he felt like a fifteen year old initiate again, poring through densely worded literature on the inner workings of the Fade and suddenly understanding his studies, excited and prideful. Even during all his training, however, he’d never once been trapped in the Fade, not like this. 

And then, instead of feeling like a fifteen year old student, victorious in his schooling and throwing his fists up into the air, cheering as loud as he possibly could to make the brothers rush in and see what the fuss was about . . . the real meaning behind it all crashed into him like a wave off the Storm Coast, violent and icy. He lifted his head, jerking himself free from the Warden’s hands, and found Duncan standing nearby. He must have looked horrified, because his mentor’s expression shifted into something resembling worry. “Please, Maker, no,” Alistair blurted, voice thick with grief, before he could even begin to think about stopping himself.

Duncan held his hands out to him as though calming a wild horse, gentle in the eyes, and he really, truly looked like Duncan, like he was really, truly concerned. “Alistair? What’s wrong?”

He _hadn’t_ saved him. Duncan had died at Ostagar.

He cringed away, turning his face from him so he wouldn’t have to take in the image of him; it wasn’t really him. It was a demon, tampering with the memory of someone he loved so dearly, in an attempt to ensnare him here forever. It was still heartbreaking to look at him, though, to see him animated and alive and sternly affectionate. He was exactly how Alistair remembered him, which was entirely the point. The demon had pried into his mind and soiled something sacred: it reconstructed it as accurately as it could, built specifically from Alistair’s memory, made as wonderful and desirable as possible, and used it to try and seduce him into complacency. It had constructed a reality where Alistair had saved him, and he felt so enraged at the idea of something so private and so personal being stripped open and ─ and _played with._ “Don’t,” he commanded, raw, and from the corner of his eye he could see whatever was pretending to be Duncan slow, and then stop. “I can’t ─ this isn’t ─” 

The Warden shushed him, and she slipped her hands onto his face again. The leather of her gloves was scratchy and _so_ real, and he blinked down at her, his breaths bursting out of him in panicked little huffs. Her long eyelashes fluttered when she blinked up at him, almost coy, and her mouth was soft and inviting and indulgent when she smiled at him. Her cheeks dimpled, exactly the way he liked. Whatever this creature was, it was _eerily_ identical to her, and the thought that a demon had pried into his mind enough to use his infatuation with her was . . . unsettling. And infuriating. Her voice was saccharine. “My poor Alistair,” she cooed, holding his face, “you’re exhausted and confused. You were in so much pain, but you don’t have to be anymore. Come, let me ─”

“Andraste’s fucking tits ─ I mean flaming tits─ I just kissed a demon,” Alistair suddenly blurted, and the Warden’s face twisted up, and she went unnaturally still all over. Disgusted, Alistair ripped her hands from his face and pushed her arms against her chest, callously shoving her away from himself. She hurdled backwards in shock, and her eyes got wider still when he drew his blade, pointing it at her. With his shield-arm, he wiped at his mouth in his revulsion. “Oh, you cheeky bitch,” he derided her, unable to stop the mean spirited, angry laughter from escaping him as he said it, but there was much less humor in his grin when he directed it at her. “Very cute. You almost had me for a minute there, I’ll give you that. I couldn’t even tell at first. Unfortunately, you don’t quite get her right. Not enough . . . vivacity, as it were.”

“Alistair, what in Maker’s breath ─” Duncan started, but Alistair lunged towards him, putting the point of his sword harshly against the jut of Duncan’s neck, right where his artery was. Duncan swallowed hard, and Alistair watched his throat bob with it as his hands raised to his sides in slow surrender.

 _“And you,”_ Alistair growled out, furiously, “how dare you make a mockery of him. I’m going to enjoy cutting you down, demon.”

Duncan’s face went clear all over. “Alistair,” he said patiently, even with the edge of Alistair’s blade digging into his skin, “don’t be foolish. I’ve given you so much. Would you really cast it back in my face? After all I’ve done for you? Don’t you snarl at me, boy. I plucked you up from the dredges of your own misery and offered you a place to belong to ─ a place that accepts you as you are, in name and blood. You could be just Alistair here. Alistair the Grey Warden. Couldn’t you be content with that? With a life of valor, and honor? A home?” His voice was soft and deep, and though Alistair knew it wasn’t really him, it sounded so much like him that anguish rose in his throat like bile when Duncan said, “There’s so much more I could teach you. You could make me so proud. You could be like a son to me.” Alistair blinked, and he felt something hot and wet fall down his cheek, dripping from his jaw. “Don’t disappoint me. Let’s go inside, Alistair. You’re exhausted, I can tell. You’re so tired, and you deserve to rest, and ─”

“Duncan would never be complacent,” Alistair barked vehemently, forceful even through the brittle of his voice. “He trusted me with a charge, and I intend to see it through. You won’t keep me here, not when there’s a war to be fought. I may have been many things to Duncan,” he breathed, shakily, “but I was never a disappointment.”

“I offer you peace, not complacency, foolish child. But so be it,” was the brusque reply, so unlike Duncan suddenly, “have your war. But first, have your Warden.”

Clever wordplay aside, it was the only warning he got before he heard the Warden draw her sword, fast, and the sound jolted him into action. The blow came from behind, and Alistair had only just managed to awkwardly angle his sword back over his shoulder, rebuffing her blade and keeping his head attached to his shoulders. The screech of metal against metal rang out loud in the empty corridor as Alistair twisted his body around, her sword balanced heavy against his own. He threw their weapons wide and then thrust his own blade forward. She’d equipped her shield, however, likely while his back was turned, and she deflected it easily. He was on the backfoot as he fumbled to get his own shield in his hands, parrying her swipes with his blade and trying to strap his kite on in between, each connection of their swords punctuated with the shrill echoing ring of steel meeting steel. 

He kept pace with her, even as he struggled with his kite, awkwardly blocking slashes with it limp against his arm when he could. If it were really her, she’d have struck him down by now, and he had to focus on that. It wasn’t until she bowled him over, her shield heavy and hard against his torso, that he looked up at her, wild-eyed from where he was sprawled on the floor, and witnessed what many others before him had seen before they died.

If this is what the darkspawn faced, he certainly didn’t envy them. It was a wonder anyone ever willingly fought her: she was intimidating, savage in the baring of her teeth, her eyes bright and piercing under her low-drawn brow. The intensity of her blows was matched only by the broad lines of her shoulders, the fury of her voice when she poured it into every vicious swing of her sword or the thrash of her shield. Alistair tucked himself in when her sword cracked down, and as the blade bounced hard against the stone floor only inches from his head, he pressed his sabaton into her stomach and shoved her, hard. She was smaller than him, and his strength forced her backwards. At last, he slipped his arm through his shield strap, gripping the other leather hold hard, and he scrambled to his feet.

He’d faced her before, of course. They were soldiers, both of them, and they were both trained as knights. They’d sparred together many times to keep their skills sharp, or to warm themselves up when they knew there would be battles to fight in the coming hours, but that was nothing like this. That was a light hearted contest, full of banter and taunts and her smile ─ this, however, was a duel to the death, and pure instinct had him smashing his shield into her face as soon as she was whipping forward again, and the snapping of bone almost made him panic.

 _It’s not her,_ he reminded himself, his sword clanging against the stone as he dropped it to instead brandish his knife, _it’s not actually her._

If it really were her, if it really was the Warden fighting him with the intent to kill, he would be dead.

As they teetered to the ground, he stuck the short blade hard into her side, where he knew the armor was vulnerable, over and over again until their momentum slammed her into the stone with him astride her. He must have stabbed her at least eight times, and any human would have died ─ she was moving beneath him though, even with his shield covering her face, and the sounds coming from her were more animal than anything else.

He could smell it before he could see it: pure energy, burning in the air, and he hit his shield harder against her face, mashing it into pulp in a panic. They were in the Fade ─ Templars enforced the physical will of the _real_ world against magic, severing mages’ connections to the Fade when in the corporeal world, and he had no idea if his abilities would work here. The scent and the hot sensation of her mana, however, had him instinctually attempting to drain her magic . . . and it worked. He heard the shocked, confused sound beneath him as her healing spell suddenly fizzled, the glow of her mana going dim; but not all the way out. He’d only weakened the magic, as opposed to stopping it completely. He was still rather impressed with himself nonetheless. 

“You like that?” he breathed, unnecessarily cruel, but the sting of the demon using Duncan against him burned like fire in his chest. “Didn’t think I had it in me? You went digging into my mind and saw me in the monastery, didn’t you? I was just a Templar initiate, but you only saw how much I hated it. You didn’t pay attention to how _good_ at it that I really was.” He could hear the bones under his shield splintering, and he let the kite bear the full brunt of his weight as he crushed her face in and sheathed his knife. “That lost little boy isn’t who I am anymore ─ I was always better than I thought I was. I would have made a _damn_ fine Templar. I’m happy to give you a demonstration.”

When he pulled off of her, retrieving his fallen sword from beside them, she suddenly wasn’t _her._ It was a woman, all right, but not the Warden; he knew immediately it was a desire demon, mauled in the face and clawing at it as she gurgled wetly, “How can ─ you’re not taking lyrium.”

Alistair held his sword arm out, letting her see the radiance of his Templar abilities pulse through his weapon, the blade lighting up bright. “Not anymore,” he said, grinning. “On a related note ─ did you know the Joining is a ritual that involves darkspawn blood, magic, and _lyrium?_ One dose can sustain a skilled Templar far longer than the Chantry would want you to believe. Funny, that.” With her magic weakened, she wasn’t as big a threat; she was still a demon, however, and even as he spoke, her face was snapping and cracking back into place, beautiful once again. “And I happen to be a very skilled Templar.”

“All right, clever thing,” she said, her voice no longer disguised as the Warden’s, strangely toned like they were in a hollow cave, echoing off the walls. She was drawn up from the floor as if pulled by a string, and she righted herself before him, slinky and sensual in the way she moved and floated several inches from the ground. “No need to boast: you have my attention. Perhaps we can make a bargain?”

Typical. From what he could recall of his studies, these sorts were usually more . . . conversational. Smarter, more willing to improvise. Her side was soaked in blood, and with the drain on her mana, he assumed she couldn’t heal herself completely the way she normally could have. He didn’t lower his guard, but his eyes darted to Duncan’s figure, and the demon laughed, smooth and melodic in sound.

“Don’t fret, my sweet,” she purred. “I control him as well.”

Ah. It wasn’t shocking that he’d gotten the upper hand so quickly, then: she was manifesting two bodies at once. Well. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick to brag, he could admit that, considering she’d had enough mana to still maintain the illusion even as she healed herself through his purge. It made sense; mages were stronger in the Fade. Templars would be weaker. He shifted from foot to foot. “Right. Well. That’s reassuring?”

“I can do better than _reassure,_ certainly.” He watched her hands travel up along her sides, slow, cupping her breasts and pressing them together, and then her hands dipped down the expanse of her body again. Alistair found he was far less impressed than he thought he’d be, after all the scintillating tales the Templar initiates used to whisper to each other about the desire demon late at night, comparing increasingly . . . lewd stories. Oh, to go back now and tell them how truly unsettling and disgusting it really was, not at all like the lascivious things they’d get to fantasizing about. Something about the prospect of dying just didn’t inspire that certain mood. “You’re skilled to cast your will over this place, I grant you that, but there’s no need to quarrel. I simply wanted to make you happy.”

Alistair scoffed. “Oh, is that all? Well, aren’t you just the most selfless demon in all of the Fade? Of course, wanting to make me happy has nothing to do with possessing me. Perish the thought.”

She tutted, condescending and pitying. “Poor, sweet Alistair, but how your heart aches.” The breath in his chest escaped him shakily, and he realized he was still bearing his shield in front of him, as though it would defend him from her words. “No one else has seen it the way I have, and no one else ever will. Not even you know yourself the way I now know you; all those deep scars within you, scars you refuse to acknowledge . . . oh, but it makes one weep on your behalf. I’ve seen your longing: you want for a home, for a family. Sweet, lonely little boy, with the broken, lonely little heart. You never have to be that little boy again, Alistair, cast aside and forgotten. You can be the man who has what his heart has always yearned for. You could be wanted, you could be loved.” Her hands were aligned with her hips again, and she traced the shape of her waist, exaggerated in its beauty. “I can give you that. I want you, Alistair. Is there to be any harm in,” her grin went almost salacious, _“delighting_ in true joy? Is there any harm in being happy?”

She was biding her time, he knew that. If she had enough mana, she’d have struck him down already, or she’d have healed more than just her face. But she wasn’t _wrong,_ really, and the fact of it was an uncomfortable truth that made his mouth feel dry. He did want that, so badly that he thought it would kill him at times, but he wanted the real thing, not a false imitation of it. He wanted to earn it.

He took a steadying breath, even though the bloom of it in his lungs felt like a burst of pain. “No harm to you, maybe. No, no no, don’t tell me. All it costs me is the rest of my very short life, while you get to feed off of me and walk around with my body. Sounds like I’m getting a bargain! I’d hate to take advantage of your kindness,” he replied snidely, his voice stronger than he felt.

The hum that left her was amused, and she tilted her head at him. “Your life is short of your own volition,” she pointed out, and he could feel his mouth part in surprise. “Truly, Alistair, is what I offer you much different than what Duncan had offered? In return for a sliver of happiness, you’ve already bargained away many years of your life, have you not?” Alistair’s eyes narrowed, and he shiftily adjusted his grip on his sword’s pommel. “You swallowed that polluted blood _hungrily,_ didn’t you? You could have gagged on it you were so . . . eager. Such a pretty mouth, but you’ve,” she ran a hand over one of her breasts again, slow and wicked, “corrupted it, willingly. You had no doubts, resolute in your decision to sign away your life and name for your desire of a home. For the chance to belong, to feel accepted . . . I would grant you the same, but without the perils that come with being a Grey Warden. Without the need to sully your own body, to _adulterate_ yourself. All you’d need do is sleep, and I’d take care of everything. I’d take care _of you.”_ She clicked her tongue like a sympathetic wife, and Alistair had come to realize that she’d drifted closer. “Poor, sweet Alistair,” she echoed, “so tired of mourning, of watching innocent people die, of feeling helpless and stupid, of being overlooked and underestimated . . .”

“You’ve underestimated me as well,” was his vehement answer, and he put all his strength into the slice of his sword, lodging it firmly within her side. Her little scream was furious and agonized, and he forced his shoulder inwards, hard, growling roughly as he bisected her ─ it wasn’t really her, however. Duncan, who had been sitting motionless, unblinking, suddenly started into animation once again, and the halves of the demon’s body dispersed into nothing as he drew his daggers. _That’s her,_ Alistair noted, sliding his foot along the ground as he leveled himself into proper swordplay form.

She spoke with Duncan’s mouth, his voice, “Foolish man. I offered you a deal many would _kill_ for. Now you _die_ for it.”

He didn’t grace her with an answer. Sickened by the vulgarity of her wearing his mentor’s skin, he simply lurched forward, thrusting his sword towards Duncan. It was rebuked, he knew it would be, but he was ready with his shield, and he was aiming to knock the demon off balance with it.

Without her concentration split, however, she was more formidable, and Duncan took the brunt of the shield’s weight with his shoulder and forced Alistair back. He hadn’t realized it was possible to get hurt in the Fade, but when Duncan’s dagger carved against Alistair’s forearm, he could feel blood down the length of his wrist, wet and sticky, and the sensation was absurdly real, the leather of his glove ripped from the blade. If he died here, he assumed he simply wouldn’t wake up in the real world; he’d just stop breathing. The thought alone was enough motivation for him to go about _not_ dying, but it was second in priority to slaying the demon for _daring_ to toy with his grief, the disrespect of her slipping into Duncan’s skin like he was a costume and not the best man Alistair had ever met.

It was a tense exchange; several times he’d made blows that would have killed any other living creature, but the demon kept Duncan’s visage upright even though he should have been long dead, and it was so maddening that Alistair’s hands were shaking with anger as he fought her. The demon’s laughter was bright and confident, and the sound of it in Duncan’s voice was so grating and so attentive to Duncan’s details that Alistar swore he could taste copper in his mouth, teeth clenched with rage.

“It should have been you,” Duncan snarled, his daggers striking against Alistair’s blade with such power that the metal sparked with it, “it should have been you at Ostagar, you useless child. Who are you, compared to me? Watered down Templar refuse; you think you would have been good at it? At being a _Templar?_ Don’t be stupid.” Alistair sucked in frantic breaths as Duncan spoke. His footwork abruptly felt clumsy, and surely enough, he was less balanced whenever Duncan would swing a dagger into him, the compulsion of it nearly knocking the kite or his sword from his hands, each thunderous strike making him stumble with the momentum. He was forced backwards as the demon goaded him, and he tried to recalibrate himself with little success. “You would have been a _poor_ Templar. You’re weak, Alistair. You wouldn’t have it in you to do what needs to be done. You couldn’t strike down a defenseless little mage, you spineless coward. Why would you be able to strike down an archdemon? It should have been you in my place. Dying is the best thing you could have done for Ferelden ─ imagine what I could have accomplished with your precious Warden. I could have mentored her into something great, but instead she’s saddled with the deadweight of a man consumed by his grief and his fear, hiding behind his _stupid little jokes.”_ Duncan battered his shield wide, and then one well-placed kick to Alistair’s gut had him laid out on the stone, gasping to try and regain the breath that was pummeled out of him.

He jockeyed backwards, clutching at his stomach with his shield arm and kicking himself away as Duncan approached him, and it looked so much like him: austere, unwavering, unafraid. Alistair hysterically wondered if he looked the same on the battlefield at Ostagar, if he faced his death with that same characteristic dignity ─ he wondered what Duncan thought of, moments before he died. If he wished he’d let Alistair join him in battle after all, or if he was relieved Alistair was in the tower. Was he frightened? Was he angry? Was it quick? Was it slow? Did they hurt him, did they torture him, did they eat him?

Alistair jerked himself away, scrabbling onto his hands and knees to try and force himself up and drag himself along the floor. _Stand up, stand up._ The pommel of Duncan’s blade suddenly bludgeoned him, bullish against his jaw, and he ended up on his back again. Through his swimming vision, he saw Duncan looming over him, and he could feel hot blood all down his mouth and his cheek. He’d bitten his tongue, or at the very least, he _thought_ he had. Was he really hurt? He didn’t know ─ he couldn’t remember his studies on the Fade, and his head was throbbing with pain. His sword wasn’t in his hand. He weakly pawed at the stone, trying to find the hilt.

“You know it, Alistair,” Duncan accused him sharply. “You know it to be true. You’re nothing next to me. I was a man worthy of respect, of being a Grey Warden. You can’t even mend your shirt correctly.” A watery laugh gurgled out of Alistair’s chest before he could stop himself. “That’s right. Be typical. Deflect with humor, the way you always do. You’re so afraid of anyone knowing you, _truly_ knowing you, for you believe they’ll be disappointed with what they find under that smart mouth ─ and you’re right. I know you, Alistair, and I know you exactly as the man you are: a gutless, weak-willed follower. A purposeless milksop. A nobody who was too lucky to die with the other Wardens.”

The demon was right. Blood welled in his mouth with nowhere to go but down his throat, and Alistair said nothing as he looked up at Duncan through lidded eyes. He was unworthy, and disappointing. A nobody.

But he didn’t want to be. 

What he wanted was to be someone. He wanted to be someone who was worthy of the task entrusted to him, who was fearless and strong and capable. He wanted to be depended on, and he didn’t want to let anyone down. He could be more ─ no. He _was_ more. The stock of his sword was within reach; he could feel it on the pads of his fingers like _potential,_ so close and so attainable. All there was to do was take it in hand and wield it. 

He’d been bitter for so long: at himself, at Arl Eamon, at the other initiates of the monastery, at the Knight Commander, at the men of the Templar order, but he excelled at his education, at the hours of exhausting practice and training, at the swordplay, at the honing of his mental fortitude. He was disciplined, he was charming, he was funny, he was exceptional in combat, and he was a good man with a good heart. He was better than everyone thought he was, even himself. Even when he felt like everything the demon was saying was true ─ it wasn’t. He had to believe that it wasn’t.

Duncan’s blade came down at him fast, and Alistair threw himself aside as the weapon slammed into the ground. His own grip fastened onto his sword as he rolled, and he lurched to his feet just as Duncan aimed another slash at him. The sound of it against his shield echoed out in the hall. He calmed his breathing as he salvaged his footing, tamping down on the anger and the grief and the resentment, and he focused. He was good at it; he’d trained for years to be good at it. He wasn’t angry by nature ─ he was disciplined. It was time to act like it.

Abruptly, he switched tactics. He fell back to the defensive, backward-weighted in his guard, and he watched, and he waited. This was the Fade, and he didn’t have a philter, but he would pit his abilities against any lyrium-addled Templar, and he would _win,_ he knew he would. So he waited, knocking the demon’s blades away with his shield; Duncan always favored a high guard, and he swung downwards more often than not, and as Alistair watched, he confirmed to himself that the desire demon was, in fact, mimicking the style. He didn’t know whether to be impressed at how thoroughly she’d slipped into character, or violated that she knew so much of Duncan.

It didn’t matter, in the end; all her mimicry was just that. She could never hope to match Duncan or the Warden for anything, not for skill, not for pride, not for love. On one downswing, he saw his chance: he tilted his shield further forward than normal, catching the haft of the dagger on the lip of it and ripping upwards. The knife went flying, Duncan’s arm splayed wide above him, and Alistair gored him through the middle before Duncan’s dagger even hit the ground. He twisted his blade, their faces hovered close together, and he watched Duncan’s expression go pinched with agony. What normally would have broken his heart was now just an indication that he’d won. He’d regained his fortitude, something he’d perfected after years of training and sharpening his mind, and he refused to let her shake him again.

“Please, Alistair, don’t do this to me,” Duncan choked out, one last desperate ploy to exploit Alistair’s love for him. Alistair coolly met his eyes and, merciless, he shoved his blade deeper, until the crossguard dug into Duncan’s belly. Then he poured every last bit of his will into his sword and purged the magic with a violent, explosive burst. 

The force of the dispel shattered the illusion, and he found himself looking into the desire demon’s eyes rather than Duncan’s ─ and the illusion of Weisshaupt had broken, as well. The fortress now was simply a throng of broken rocks, chaotic in their structure, some of them suspended in the air and arching in unnatural, strange shapes. There seemed to be nothing beyond them, empty and endless. The stage they were standing on was sturdy enough, but his head spun as he took in the sight around them. He wondered what would happen if someone was to fall from the edge. Would they fall forever? Or crash into someone’s dream eventually? 

He ripped his glowing blade from her stomach, sending her to her knees.

His sword arm felt hot with the familiar thrum of power as he drained her mana, keeping her from healing herself; and he made her watch him do it, flexing his fingers several times on the hilt of his gleaming sword so she would realize that the blockage of her mana was him. Even in the Fade, he’d severed her connection to it, imposed a will so powerful onto her that she was helpless in the wake of it, and the distressed look of astonishment on her face was maliciously gratifying. It was _his_ will. It was his real, physical will, and he’d been enough. As the demon watched him, burbling with death, he spun his blade in his hand theatrically for her benefit, shooting her a cocky grin and a roguish tilt of his brow to signal to her _I told you so,_ and then beheaded her.

Her body thudded heavy against the stone. He could feel it: a shift in the air, an energy that leaked away, and he knew she was completely dead. Slowly, he lowered his sword, and then he started laughing, bordering on hysterical. She was slain, but he still stumbled to bend over her corpse, jeering, “Is that death you’re wearing? Because it _really suits you!”_ Overwrought, he righted himself, swaying as it felt like the world was shifting beneath his feet. He breathed, manic, and then he admitted, “Right. That joke might have worked better if you were actually wearing clothes.”

Shaken, he clumsily tried to sheathe his sword, missing the slot of it once, twice, before his blade hit true and slid home. He watched the desire demon’s body shimmer, and then slowly seep away into nothing, and then he was well and truly alone in the Fade. 

“Maker,” he moaned, scanning the area. “Now what?”

As he said it, his eyes fell upon what looked to be a summoning font. _Certainly wasn’t there before,_ he assured himself, though he felt decidedly unassured. He remembered seeing one of its like in the Harrowing chamber ─ ah. The Harrowing. He’d been disquieted by the idea as it was, but now that he’d experienced something similar, the very thought of it was repulsive. He knew it was a necessity to teach mages to resist temptation, but to purposefully put a demon into someone? To let it weave through their innermost thoughts, their private fears and fantasies, and leave the mage to the metaphorical wolves, at the mercy of all their horrors and hopes? It seemed misplaced at best, and barbaric at worst. A cruel tournament, where winning meant baring yourself open to the worst of what was inside you, and losing meant death ─ or worse.

What must his mage have seen, he wondered, during the lone Harrowing he’d attended? What must she have witnessed inside her own mind that was tempting enough, or painful enough, that she gave herself up to it, and became twisted and monstrous and inhuman? He remembered the shape of her, gnarled and wrong, the way she’d charged at them, and how he had hesitated despite it, how another Templar had struck out with his blade because Alistair never drew his. What did she see? What did they _make_ her see?

Perhaps the demon had been right. Maybe he _would_ have made for a poor Templar. He couldn’t honestly say he minded.

Alistair thought of Duncan for a long moment, and, alone in the Fade, he rubbed at his wet cheeks and tried to school his breathing into steadiness. He wished, so badly, that he’d been able to save Duncan, somehow, some way. He wished he’d taken the killing blow.

“I hate this,” he wheezed out to no one, and then he approached the font.

It was a simple enough task, if simple meant convoluted beyond belief. The Fade’s labyrinthine structures made his head spin, but he’d, admittedly, picked up on it rather fast. It was like a puzzle, interwoven and all connected, and each little piece he picked up had him making quick progress ─ luckily, using the font to travel or changing his shape seemed to heal him of any wounds, as well, and he was much more optimistic once the pain ebbed and he could see the headway he was making. According to the apprentice, their hopes lied with slaying the sloth demon, the arbiter of the nightmare, and the pathway to his realm was to kill the residents of each demesne until the way became open to them.

Ah, the apprentice, Niall. Alistair felt for him, he really did, but he was despondent and down on himself and wouldn’t help. The information he’d given him was valuable, at the least, though he wouldn’t move from his place no matter how Alistair prodded him. He supposed he couldn’t blame him; he’d had such good intentions, only to end up imprisoned in his own body, helpless.

Alistair had promised to get him out, and then tried to cheer him up by showing him how he had learned to become a mouse. Niall didn’t seem to be impressed, but Alistair’s enthusiasm after he changed back was enough to at least get him to crack a tiny smile.

He made quick work of it, and it wasn’t long before each demon of each locale was dead. After that, it was like a door unlocking; even with no indication from the font, Alistair somehow knew that the sloth demon sat nestled in the middle of the sprawling web ─ but there were other places open to him now too, and he understood that his companions were trapped in these specific domains through that same inherent knowledge the font granted him. They were likely imprisoned by their dreams the way he’d been in his own. 

The first one was Morrigan. If he had known the font would take him to her, he might have avoided it.

He approached cautiously, the rocks scraping under his boots as he took the incline, and once he saw Morrigan standing in front of her mother, stormy-eyed and cutting her arm in the air between them, he had to stifle a groan. Peeking over his shoulder at the font, he found it inactive, and he rolled his eyes in exasperation and surrendered himself to the concept of _helping_ the swamp witch.

“Away! Away with you! I shall have _no more_ of your pestering,” Morrigan hissed.

Laughter roiled out of Alistair as he neared, and the two women jumped at the sound, clearly not expecting to be interrupted. The satisfaction he felt when Morrigan turned to find _him,_ her face slack with surprise, was nearly intoxicating; unable to help himself, he grinned, crossing his arms and cocking a hip, smug and not afraid of showing it.

“Trouble in paradise?” he crooned. “Don’t tell me. You were expecting our fearless leader, weren’t you? Yet here _I_ am, your dashing hero. Tell me I’m dashing, Morrigan.”

“Of all the . . .” Morrigan sneered at him, and then she dropped her forehead into her hand, rubbing at it with her fingers. “Oh, _I_ see,” she drawled, “this is the fade spirit _finally_ understanding that it can’t fool me with such idle parlor tricks, and thus it attempts to annoy me to death.” She threw her arms up, glowering. “You win, fade spirits! You may possess my body! Just get me away from Alistair!”

“Don’t ignore me, girl,” Flemeth began.

“Be quiet, spirit,” Morrigan spat back.

Alistair hiked a leg up onto the hill, resting his elbow on a knee as he leaned forward, chin propped up in his hand. “Oh, _please_ get possessed,” he agreed. “Once you become an abomination, I’ll finally have an excuse to introduce you to my blade. I think you two would really like each other. Want to know what I named it?” He lowered his voice, sultry in how he tempted her with, “It’s _dirty.”_

“You’ve been looking for excuses to cut me down, have you?” she asked tersely, and he knew she really was annoyed if she was unwilling to take such obvious bait.

“Not especially.” 

“My heart breaks,” the spirit tried to intervene again.

 _“Be quiet, spirit,”_ Alistair and Morrigan said jointly. Morrigan whirled on him in outrage, furious he’d been able to predict her words, and he grinned, wagging his eyebrows at her.

She swiped both her arms out across her chest, in firm denial. “Enough torment. Begone, Alistair, or make yourself useful and draw your sword! I will not stand here and be vexed by _two_ persistent fools who speak only nonsense.”

“Now, now, Morrigan. I understand that you’re upset that I escaped first, but being a poor sport is unbecoming. More unbecoming than your mother’s nose on your pretty face ─”

_“I will turn you into a toad, Alistair.”_

“Point taken,” he said agreeably. “Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to know how I did it?” He tilted himself further forward, balanced on his knee. The spirit was glowering now, and its eyes were hard and angry and fixed on its pretend-daughter. “How did I escape the spirits before the great and mighty Morrigan? You _must_ be wondering. Let me tell you, I’m looking forward to describing to everyone how I swooped in and saved the day, while you were stuck here, listening to your mother lecture you. Sad, isn’t it?”

Morrigan was fuming by then, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “The only thing I find myself curious of,” she said, sing-song, “is how a man is capable of _such_ stupidity, where even breathing seems too hard a skill for him to perfect. I would like to know how you manage not to drool on yourself constantly, you twit.”

Alistair, chin in hand, grinned at her, noisily sucking air in through his mouth and then releasing it just as loudly.

“Well! How impressive!” she snapped. “The fool can breathe after all. Now show us how long you can hold it.”

“Don’t ignore me,” Flemeth repeated, dangerously, “you selfish child. Surely such disrespect must be punished.” And Alistair watched, no longer grinning, when the spirit raised her hand and slapped Morrigan hard across the face. The sound of flesh striking flesh seemed to ring out sharply through the barren, rocky enclosure. Her head whipped out from the force of it and she stumbled backwards, and even in the pale light of the Fade, Alistair could see her cheek reddening. He stood up straight, hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

Morrigan calmly eased back into her place in front of her mother, but she was icy quiet, her pale eyes leveled on the spirit in front of her; whatever composure she’d lost with Alistair’s arrival, she’d seem to have gained back. Though part of him suspected it was for his benefit, so that she would not look weak in front of him.

“There,” Flemeth declared contemptuously. “Perhaps you will consider thinking yourself, rather than demanding it of others, foolish girl. You do far too little of it, and far too much talking.”

“That is more like it, but it is too little, too late, spirit. A pity you won’t get to try again.” More like it? Then the spirit had gotten something right; he disliked Morrigan _deeply,_ but even he found himself sympathetic as he watched, disgusted by the display. Morrigan’s hands had seated themselves proudly onto her hips, and she spun around to look at Alistair. “What are you waiting for? A written invitation, so you may practice your literacy? Slay it.”

“Actually, that doesn’t sound half bad. Why not write me a little poem? _Like Alistair there was no other; I asked nice, and he killed my mother.”_ he jeered, but he’d drawn his sword as soon as Morrigan commanded him to. “You need big, strong Alistair to rescue you, don’t you? Oh, but he’s _handsome,_ too, isn’t he? Tell him he’s handsome, Morrigan, and he might just free you.”

“I would sooner swallow poison.” She was scowling at him in disgust. “‘Tis what you’re here for, is it not? ‘Tis the entire function of you useless Templars? Or have you simply come to gloat, the ever-humble victor, and watch the theatrics of a fade spirit so novice it could not even properly read my mind enough to form a decent copy of my mother?” Her voice was bitter, as it always was, but Alistair almost thought he detected a hint of resentment there, and as much as he hated her, he wasn’t interested in tormenting her. Morrigan may have touted herself as being above it all, but he’d witnessed something . . . unkind, and he had a feeling she was embarrassed he’d seen it. He had a heart, after all, which was something he doubted she could claim herself. She turned her nose up at him when she asked, “Was _yours_ this pathetic?”

“Tell you what,” Alistair said, twirling his sword in a casual manner, “I kill your mother, and you don’t ask about my dreams. We’ll call it even.”

Something like relief flickered in her eyes, but Alistair pretended not to notice. “I find the concept of your dreams to be utterly boring. Now be quick about it and make yourself useful for once.”

He was ─ he took the hill in quick strides, faster than the spirit or Morrigan seemed to have been expecting, and the draw of his sword across the spirit’s stomach would have spilled her guts out, were she human. She tumbled from the force of his blow, wounded, and she drew her own staff furiously once she’d regained her footing.

“Intruder!” Alistair shrugged his shield off his shoulder as the spirit shrieked at him, sliding his arm through the straps. “How dare you intervene on a mother and her child? She must _learn._ She needs discipline. She knows nothing, nothing at all, and she won’t even acknowledge her own mother, how it breaks my heart ─”

Suddenly, the spirit went up in flames. Alistair reared back as it screamed, arm jerking up to shield himself from the heat of the magic burst. He could see Morrigan with her own weapon drawn, pointed contumely at the image of her mother, her brows drawn low. She didn’t spare him a glance, but he got the message all the same: she was with him.

Together, they made quick work of it, though he supposed two against one was rather unsporting. Alistair threw himself and his shield in front of Morrigan whenever the spirit tried to direct its offensive spells against her, dispelling any glyphs or wards with his Templar aptitude, and Morrigan focused her more aggressive magic onto the spirit whenever it forced Alistair to retreat to buy him some breathing room. In the end, one of Morrigan’s entropic spells crushed the life out of the demon, and it crumpled to the floor in its death. Slowly, like the creature from his own dream, it faded away.

Alistair turned to Morrigan, grinning as he sheathed his sword, and she replaced her staff into its leather banded holster in turn. She pointedly did not smile back, but she wasn’t sneering at him either, and he counted it as another victory.

“‘Tis about time!” Her cheek was no longer red, but she seemed less inclined to meet Alistair’s eye than she normally was. “That was most ─”

All at once, she glimmered. “Wait.” She held her arms out, and they both stared in surprise as her hands began to go transparent; it started from her fingers, and then it spread up her arms along the rest of her with such haste that her words and voice were silenced. “What is this? No! Not this again! I refuse ─”

And then she was gone.

Alistair stood stupidly for a moment, rooted to the spot, before he turned this way and that to see if she was simply playing a joke on him. He saw nothing, and a shouted, _“Morrigan’s a bitch!”_ didn’t prompt any sort of response. Really gone, then. He hoped it meant she’d woken up in the real world, but he had no way of knowing until he was awake himself.

“Right,” he said to bolster his completely metaphorical spirits, unrelated at all to the Fade, “one down, two yet remain.”

Wynne was next, though once again it was purely by coincidence; if he could bear to be honest with himself, he was hoping for the Warden. He didn’t know Wynne very well, having only just met her at the start of all this, but she seemed kind at the very least, and he liked her well enough. Apparently, she’d also been at Ostagar, and she was vehement that Loghain had betrayed the king and that the mage named Uldred was a vile snake of a man who was complicit, which may have helped her endear herself to him. Still, he wasn’t sure what to expect.

He found her surrounded by a slew of apprentice corpses, the poor old woman on her knees in the midst of them. Her hands were clasped in her lap, and as Alistair approached, he could see her face was dry, but she looked pale and haunted nonetheless. She didn’t look to Alistair as he neared, but once he was close enough, she said, “Maker forgive me. I failed them all. They died, and I did not stop it. I _couldn’t._ I was weak.”

Alistair examined the bodies, and he recognized them as being the same from the first floor of the hold, the ones behind Wynne’s barrier. _A cruel thing to show an old woman,_ he thought once his eyes fell upon the bodies of the children. Carefully, he lowered himself to a knee in front of Wynne.

“They’re not dead yet,” he told her, gently. “We can still save them. The Circle hasn’t fallen, Wynne, we still have time. I need you to come with me.”

She finally met his eyes, but it was a cutting sort of look; her mouth drew down, and the bewilderment on her face was mixed with anger. “How can you say that?” she demanded. “Look around us. There _is_ no time left, not for them. They have only death. Death I should have prevented, and death that you act so callous towards. I am a senior enchanter; their safekeeping was my responsibility. I’ve failed them all. I’ve failed the Circle.”

Alistair shifted his weight to his other leg, uncomfortable, then swayed back to his knee. “This is a dream. You erected the barrier, remember? They’re all still there, waiting for you to come back. This isn’t real. You haven’t failed anything or anyone, Wynne, but we have to wake up.”

“How can you deny what you see with your very eyes? Do you not see it? The death, all around us? My barrier failed,” she said, turning her face away. “I wasn’t strong enough to protect them. What use am I, now that I’ve failed in the task that was given to me?” She looked up at him sharply, and her hands balled into fists. “And where were _you?_ You swore to help me defend them. I placed my trust in you, and you were nowhere to be found. How can you call yourself a Templar, when you can’t protect your charges?”

Alistair looked uneasily at the corpses. “Well, er, technically I’m _not_ a Templar, I was only trained as one. I never took my vows. Thank the Maker, am I right? Haha!” Her glower grew hotter, and he inwardly cringed. “That’s not important,” he admitted. “But this isn’t real. None of what you see here is real ─ ah, well, besides me. I’m very real. Everything else, not so much. Just, just do me a favor. Think. Think about how you got here, Wynne.”

She seemed increasingly put out with him, but she said, gracefully, “I don’t know what you think this will accomplish, making me contemplate the deaths I was too late to prevent, but I will do it.” Wynne’s eyes fell, and she examined one of the corpses; Alistair could see she wasn’t really seeing it, though, that she was miles away as she tried to backtrack the same way he had so that she might recall how she got here. It was gratifying to see her face go from mournful and angry to confused, and Alistair watched her hopefully.

“It’s . . . difficult to focus,” she confessed. “I feel as though something is stopping me from concentrating.” She put her fingertips to her forehead, distress seeping into her voice. “I ─ I have never had so much trouble . . .” 

Alistair slipped a hand onto her narrow shoulder, and she raised her head to meet his eye. “I promise you it’s not because you’re senile,” he told her playfully, and her mouth wobbled. “You’re the furthest thing. Far as I can tell, you’re a tough old mabari; full of teeth and just as loyal. I don’t believe you could fail the Circle if you tried. Come on.”

When she looked at him, there was a measure of consideration there that hadn’t been before, as though she were sizing him up. They’d only just met, but he’d meant it: their introduction alone had been at the end of her staff, her gaze equally dangerous, as she warned them off of the apprentices she was protecting. He respected a person like that. He didn’t think she was the type to lose her nerve. 

“Perhaps some distance from this place will help me to think,” she finally agreed, a little reluctantly, and Alistair hoisted himself to his feet and offered her his hand. She took it; her grip was firm, assured. “Thank you for coming here, Alistair.”

He found himself blushing. “No need to ─”

“Don’t leave us, Wynne,” one of the corpses implored, drawing itself to its feet. The rest followed suit, until Alistair and Wynne were surrounded by a small mob of undead apprentices. Alistair fumbled his weapon from its sheath, cursing the Fade and all the fade spirits under his breath as he did. “We don’t want to be alone.”

 _“Holy Maker,”_ Wynne blurted. “Stay away, foul creature!”

Alistair leveraged himself in front of her, slipping into a forward-weighted stance. He could hear her produce her own staff out of its sleeve. “We have to defeat them. It’s the only way out,” he told her, quiet.

The same apprentice that spoke before clasped his hands in front of him, pleading, and he begged, “Stay, Wynne. Don’t fight it ─ don’t fight us. You belong with us. Stay. If we should die, then why shouldn’t you? You’re old, Wynne. You’re old, and you’re tired. Rest with us. You owe us that, such small comfort, for having failed us, and you would be so happy to lay your staff down one more time. Rest.”

Unmoved by the groveling, Wynne shot a bolt of magic at it, and Alistair lurched into action with her tacit permission. The edge of his sword liberated the spirit’s head from its body as Wynne’s magic burned it, and the senior enchanter declared, “Not yet. My task is not yet done. It is not time yet.” There were more than just the one this time, however, and the battle would be longer; bracing himself, Alistair adjusted his grip on his sword as he charged to the next spirit.

By the end of it, when the last body hit the floor and then dispersed into nothing, his arm was burning from the strain of using his Templar abilities in the Fade, and he shook it through the ache as he approached Wynne. Evidently, fighting a horde of mages when they were at their most powerful was not an easy task. Funny, that. Even as resistant to magic as he was, as all Templars were, the only reason he hadn’t faltered under an entropic curse, or burned alive from a fire burst, or fallen prey to a mage’s spirit spell was the old woman standing right in front of him. Wynne eased her hand over his arm, and the glow of her healing magic eased the throbbing pulses shooting along his fingers to his shoulder, and the relief of it made him groan out a grateful noise.

“Is it over?” she asked him, and she watched him with concern as the last vestiges of his Templar power faded from his arm. Her hand drifted from him to hold her staff instead. “Thank the Maker for you, but don’t you overexert yourself, young man ─” He watched her start to shimmer, and part of him had to wonder what it felt like. Tingly, perhaps. “Wait ─ what’s happening? Where are you going?”

And then she was gone, too.

Suddenly, Alistair felt dread as he edged to the font, glowing with energy. All that remained was the Warden, and he didn’t want to think about what sort of fantasy or nightmare had to be strong enough to contain her, when she was the most duty-minded woman he’d ever met. She never seemed to waver. Whatever trapped her would be . . . personal, theirs all were, but he hesitated to see hers. He cared for her ─ and he had a sinking feeling he knew exactly what the demon would use against her.

It was necessary. He knew that. He reached for the font.

The Warden’s dream was _huge._ Morrigan’s had been humble and small; a representation of the hut she shared with her mother, Alistair supposed, and Wynne’s had been circular. No telling what _that_ represented, he thought merrily. But the Warden’s dream seemed similar to his own; much like his conjuring of Weisshaupt, her dream stretched along a pathway that led up towards a massive stone structure, shifty-looking from the strange properties of the Fade, like he was looking at the building during a heat wave. It wasn’t an actual edifice, however: it was purely slated stone stacked together, unnerving in its asymmetric shape, and it seemed oddly organic as though it was built specifically to look like a castle through time and pressure alone, completely naturally, with no outside influence from man.

Alistair crept along the path, slow and careful. He couldn’t hear or see anything out of the ordinary, not at first, but as he proceeded, he came to what seemed to be . . . an atrium, in the middle of the footpath towards the castle. He hovered just outside it, and inside the yard there was a little boy excitedly racing from one small end to the other, checking the spaces behind a set of rocks that almost seemed like benches, as though he were looking for something. His dark hair was stark against the gray of the stones and the sickly green paleness of the Fade around them, and his laughter echoed as he ran from one rocky support to the other.

The boy was calling her name. Alistair watched, uneasy, as the boy launched himself onto the bench, hands cupped around his mouth as he sing-songed, _“Where are youuu?”_ He laughed again, turning this way and that. “I’ll find you, auntie!”

 _Auntie? Ugh, Maker._ Alistair cringed, and the grind of the gravel beneath his boots caught the boy’s attention. He slowly lowered his arms to his sides, and Alistair could see it, could see _her_ in the boy’s features, vaguely, like the boy was a copy of a copy of a copy, each one less and less perfect. His stomach dropped. “Where is she?” he asked, gentle despite himself. _It’s a demon,_ he reminded himself. _But it’s dirty to look like a child,_ he argued insistently.

“I don’t know,” the boy answered. He was clearly in character. “We’re playing hide and seek. She’s hiding.” Then the illusion of innocence fell apart, and he grinned at Alistair, all teeth. “Even if you find her, she’s mine now. She won’t leave with you ─ she has us, forever this time. She’s happy here. If you care for her at all, you’ll leave her alone; let her stay, where she’s loved, and cared for, and overjoyed.”

He didn’t give Alistair the chance to interrogate him, his shoes scraping hard against the stone as he leapt from the surface of it, the dirt crunching under his feet as he landed. “Let’s race, ser! Please!” the child implored, gleefully. “It’s a game! Let’s race! Whoever reaches her first gets to keep her, forever!” He was off like a Blight wolf, his laughter trailing behind him, echoing ominously off the arcading, and he disappeared round a bend; Alistair was stumbling after him, quick as he could, but he was a grown man cumbered with heavy plate armor.

He was wheezing by the time he burst into the keep, having circled around it, and he frantically sought the boy out. He could hear the demon, still, the soles of its shoes scuffing against the floor as it scurried around just out of sight. “Cheater!” Alistair called out into the manor, and the answering laugh was abrasive and annoying, and he hastily searched the empty room. There were corridors lining the walls, two on either side. He’d been in estates before: this must have been the great hall, where the lord of the grounds would host esteemed guests, or grant audiences to freeholders.

When he listened, he could hear the spirit had taken the leftmost route, its giggling beckoning and insistent and hardly louder than a whisper. His instinct told him to follow it, that it knew where she was and it was heading straight for her, but he ignored it and hastened to the right. It would try and trick him, and he reckoned the demon needed him to move _away_ from where the Warden really was. If she saw him, even if only down the hallway, she’d come to him ─ the spirit would have known that. It needed him to go the exact opposite way, so that it might hide her from him once again.

Maker, he hoped he was right.

He came to another outdoor space, just outside of the refectory. This pathway was different, however, from the one that housed the atrium. He wished he knew the layout of Castle Cousland ─ at the very least, he’d have an idea of where a hiding spot might actually be installed. From where he was standing, he could see three clear pathways: one directly ahead of him, one just a short walk to the left, and the last was furthermost left. _That one goes back to the atrium,_ he thought, marking it on the mental map he’d begun to detail. He was calling it: _Help, I’m Lost! An Idiot’s Attempt At Cartography._

From what he could recall of the estates he’d frequented ─ Arl Eamon’s properties in Redcliffe and Denerim, specifically ─ many of the pathways likely linked up. If he went straight, he could see his only option further ahead was to follow the camber to the right, and it was probable he’d end up circling back around to where the demon boy was, and he elected to check that one last if all other paths failed. The leftmost one would go back to the atrium.

Uncertainly, he streaked down the last remaining one, the one installed right in the middle of all his choices. It was a short hallway; the very end of it was simply walled off with the Fade’s uneven, craggy stones, but there was an indent to his left, almost reminiscent of a chamber door. When he hastily approached it, he found he was right: it opened up into a long room, and in the middle of it sat a slab of stone, almost like a dining table, or a kitchen island. Beyond that, it was mostly sparse, lined with what could have been cabinets or bookshelves, but the space was almost unfinished: the ceiling seemed to be in disrepair, splintered into fractures that Alistair was disinclined to linger under, just on the off chance they should fall. 

“Leave us,” the spirit’s voice rang out, but Alistair could hear an edge to it, like it was no longer amused. “You won’t interfere.”

Bolstered, Alistair eased into the room. Cupping his mouth with both hands, he called for the Warden, and then the demon was raging. 

“Begone! Now! Don’t meddle in affairs you don’t understand! You can’t claim her, you can’t claim to care for her, when you would put her through this _again!”_ Guiltily, Alistair released a tight breath through his clenched teeth, his hand resting idle but prepared on the haft of his sword. “Let her be ─ she’ll be happy here! What will she find with you? More death, more destruction, more tragedy. Would you deny her a last chance at true happiness? Could you be that selfish, that cruel, to gladly sacrifice her for the country you won’t claim, even as it is your birthright? Coward. How dare you inflict on her what you would not take for yourself! My darling aunt! A thankless undertaking, an impossible task, that ends her life a scant few years from now. You have thirty, give or take,” Alistair found himself searching the room, looking for the child’s voice, his face pale, “but how many do you think she has left? It’s worse, do you remember? During the Blight, it’s worse. Taking those vows, making that oath, sacrificing those years . . . What if she only has ten? Or five?”

Ah. He hadn’t even thought about that. Horrified, he caught himself against the massive stone slab and tried to catch his breath, suddenly sick to his stomach. If anything were to happen to her ─ he couldn’t ─ He drew in a deep breath through his nose. _Come on, Alistair,_ he thought to himself, angry that he was letting it get to him. _Come on._ He placed both palms onto the table, leaning over it and shouting the Warden’s name, his voice rough even to himself. There was no answering chime, but he tried one more time, yelling for her.

And then he heard her. A distant, but clear, _“Alistair?”_ from under his boots. He startled, pacing away from the slab as he lingered back, searching the floor for some sort of depression, or an indication that there was a lower level. There! He could see it then, from his new angle ─ at the end of the room, just behind a cabinet, there was a decline. It traveled down, almost as though it was a staircase to the ground floor.

Or it was a cellar, or ─ or a servant’s entry, in a kitchen. Alistair’s breath got stuck in his chest. He could see her dark hair only moments later, and the air gusted out of him in relief, and he could have _cried_ he was so happy to see her.

The Warden took the stairs leisurely, and there was a curious lift to her brow as she came into view, but when she saw that it really _was_ Alistair, her mouth slowly parted, and the bright blue of her eyes seemed so pale and washed out in the green of the Fade. She stole into the room with a burst, but she stopped just across the floor from him, staring at him in equal degrees of wonder and confusion. Then the most beautiful, winsome smile spread out over her glowing face, so big that it dimpled her cheeks, which had flushed with pleasure. “Alistair!” Excitedly, she bolted for him, scrambling across the floor to him as he greedily drank the sight of her in. She seemed to come back to herself as she reached him, however, only just catching her footing before she could bowl the both of them over. Breathlessly, a little unsurely, she looked up at him, and Alistair couldn’t stop himself. He took her face in his hands and he felt over her cheekbones, her hair, her jaw, partly to reassure her and partly to reassure himself; she was here, at last, and it was really her this time. Her smile had come back strong again, her hands settled onto his wrists. “What are you doing here?” she asked him, gladly, and her eyes roved over his face like it had been years since she’d seen him last. Maybe it had, in this dream. “I was ─ I was just thinking of you.”

Abruptly, he remembered kissing her. He chased the unwelcome image from his mind in shame, but he was certain he was blushing nonetheless. It really wasn’t the time nor the place to indulge in his infatuation with her; whatever besotted fantasies his demon had confronted him with had been pried from the recesses of his mind without consent, and he was most definitely trying to pack the feelings away again before he lost what little control he had over them. He awkwardly gave her cheek a hearty pat with his palm and then pulled his hands from her. _Behave._ “Were you?” he asked casually, and he scanned the room to ensure they were alone. The demon, wherever it had been, was nowhere in sight. He sounded distracted when he spoke next. “Well, then you’re in luck! I’m, ah, I’m here for you.” He turned his eyes back to her. “You have to come with me.”

The Warden rolled her eyes playfully. “Oh, I _have_ to, do I?” she teased. “I can’t. Not yet, at least. My nephew Oren and I are in the middle of a game.” The boy. From the courtyard. Alistair swallowed, hard. “Poor thing. He gets lonely, sometimes, because his father is so busy preparing to inherit the teyrnir ─ oh, have you met Fergus yet? I swear, you two would be thick as thieves.” The sound of her laughter was a better salve than any healing poultice. “Ugh, Maker, no, I couldn’t possibly handle you and Fergus in the same room! You’d both team up against me! You ─” Suddenly she stuttered, as though she realized something, and the dread in Alistair’s gut was so nauseating that he couldn’t meet her eye. Had she remembered Fergus and his son were dead? “I get it!” she said, but she certainly did not sound as though she’d _got it._ “Fergus put you up to this, didn’t he?”

Oh. Not what he was expecting, but just as hard to swallow. “I ─”

“I don’t believe this! They’re such little cheaters!” she faux-fumed, and she was chuckling as she spoke. “Oren _always_ complains he can never find me. That’s hardly my fault, is it? Would you fault me for being too good?” She grinned at him, rocking up on the balls of her feet, their faces hovering close. “And just look at _you,_ Alistair. How altruistic. Are you going to rat me out?” She pressed two of her fingers into his chest, hard, and he swayed when she pushed him good naturedly. _“Traitor.”_ The look about him must have been painful, because her face slowly fell, and she dropped back to the soles of her boots. “Alistair? What’s wrong?”

“Listen to me,” he insisted, seriously. “There’s no game. We have to leave. Now.”

“And go where exactly?” The Warden’s laugh was nervous, reluctant. She swept her eyes over him, up and down, and then studied his face hard. “What’s going on? Alistair, what’s happened? I can help you.”

“This ─ this isn’t ─ _I’m_ trying to help _you,”_ he said urgently. “Listen to me. What are you doing here?”

She blinked owlishly at him. “I’m here because Oren wanted to play, and Fergus was busy. I just said that. What are _you_ doing here?”

Too vague of a question, then. _Come_ **_on,_ ** _Alistair,_ he chastised himself again in his frustration. He wanted so badly to be gentle. “Why are you here in Highever? Why are you playing hide and seek in full armor?”

The leather of her gloves dragged quietly over her plate, and he couldn’t see her eyes when she dipped her head to look. He watched her run a hand down the metal of her armor, and her fingers twitched into a loose fist when she’d traveled the length of it. When she raised her head, something sharp was back in her gaze. “I . . .”

“We’re Grey Wardens,” Alistair reminded her, “do you remember that? You and I, together.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “but the Blight is ─ we stopped it. You and I, together. We stopped it. I came home to Highever, and you left. It’s funny.” Her eyes were soft again, and her smile was affectionate and heartbreaking. _Damnation._ He’d almost had her. “I was just thinking how much I’ve missed you, and here you are. Either the Maker has a sense of timing or you do, Alistair, and glad I am for it.”

Impulsively, driven purely by emotion, he cupped her face again. “I’ve missed you, too,” he said, short of breath, because he was weak and he was selfish. Part of him wondered what would have happened if the demon had conjured up a version of him for her ─ what would her fondest fantasies of him involve? Would a demon, dressed in his skin, have kissed her, and would she have wanted it? He supposed he was grateful that it was really him in front of her, and that they’d never have to discover the answers. “And I need you to do something for me ─”

“Of course,” she said, before the request had even finished leaving his mouth. “Direct me, Alistair. If you’re in trouble, I’ll get you out of it. You have my word.”

Blight take her. She was twisting a knife she didn’t even realize she was holding. Crushed, he pawed at her face, affectionately stroking her cheek, and he tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear after he’d unwittingly tousled it loose. Then he withdrew from her, steeling his resolve. What happened here was heinous, but it would be crueler still to let her believe it wasn’t real. This had to end, now ─ but it still felt so difficult as he looked at her. “Andraste’s flaming sword, this is so hard. You’re making this so hard,” he moaned, mostly to himself. The Warden frowned, and then all at once grinned, and he shook his head sharply. “Don’t ─ don’t even go there. I know exactly what you’re about to say. This is ─ all right, yes, ha ha, that’s funny, I’ll give you that, but I’m trying to be serious. I . . . I need you to think. Think about how you got here, down to the last detail. What were you doing before your nephew asked you to play?”

“Oren,” she reminded him, but she sounded distracted. He watched her face shift from confused, to belligerent. “I ─ I don’t know. I can’t remember. Why are you acting so strangely? What’s going on? You’re scaring me.”

“Why do you think you can’t remember?” he barrelled on, before he could lose his mettle. Her mouth opened, and then closed. He continued. “What _can_ you remember? Do you remember the Circle? Kinloch Hold, in the middle of Lake Calenhad. Do you remember why we were there?” A muscle in her jaw twitched. “We had treaties. Grey Warden treaties. We were building an army ─ an army for the Blight. Do you remember?”

It was unnerving to watch. At first, the Warden stared at him, blankly, and then she stared _through_ him, and Alistair watched the cold realization of it settle over her in real time, like he’d just drenched her with icy cold water. The breath shuddered out of her, and he saw that she was all there again, and he’d never thought he could find that intimidating, piercing focus in her eyes as comforting as he did in that moment. 

“The hold,” she said, blankly, “the hold was in chaos.” She drew away from him, her fingers trailing over the stone slab as she walked, and she studied the shape of it hard; he wondered what she saw there. “We were going through, floor by floor, and saving everyone who could be saved. The Templars were going to annul them. I couldn’t ─ I _can’t_ let that happen. I have to save any innocent. But there was a demon . . . with the boy. The apprentice. I felt so tired.” As she spoke, she wound around the table, and she came to a stop on the opposite side, just out of arm’s reach from him. “What does this mean, Alistair?” she asked him, even as she slowly shook her head in denial, her gaze intense and cognizant and never leaving his own. He couldn’t answer right away, his mouth flattening into a thin line, and he lowered his eyes. “Alistair.” He watched her hand curl into a loose fist, and then he met her stare again. “This isn’t real, is it?”

“No,” he rasped out, voice quiet. “This isn’t real.”

She didn’t blink. “You’re real. This is really you.”

“Yes.”

“But this isn’t Highever. This is the Fade.”

“Yes.”

“My family was betrayed by Rendon Howe.”

“Yes.”

“They’re dead. All of them.”

Alistair very nearly took her to his chest, but he held himself aside in case the gesture wouldn’t be welcome; he’d already touched her too much. His brows were drawn low. “Yes,” he said, one more time. “Maker, I’m so sorry.”

He watched her as she processed the words, and she half-blinked to rid her eyes of the tears gathering in them. They didn’t spill. She cleared her throat, swiping just beneath her eye, and shuttered off. “I see,” she said, passively, and then she was their fearless leader once more. “How did you get here, Alistair, and how do we leave?”

He couldn’t possibly justify telling her of Weisshaupt or Duncan, not at the moment when her own grief was so raw. “There’s a ─ a summoning font. It allows me to travel the domain, and that demon, the sloth demon? He controls it all, and all the dreamers within it. I’ve been liberating them from his grasp, including our little party. You should have seen Morrigan’s face when I rescued her,” he said, a little more brightly, and the Warden smiled at him, though her mouth was pulled tight. “She was furious. I wish you could have seen it; I thought she’d set me on fire.” He was stalling, he knew that, and the humor in his voice drained out before he could even finish his thought. He hesitated, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, and then he reluctantly admitted, “We . . . have to fight our way out. We have to slay the demon; once it’s dead, you’re free of it.” Her mouth wobbled, and he went on. “It’s . . . going to look like them. Like your family.”

The composure she’d only been precariously holding onto by a thread snapped. If they were truly standing in a kitchen, he’d imagined she would have ruined everything; upturned the tables, smashed all the fruits underfoot and under fist, set the ovens to flame and let them burn the whole building down. He watched her go red with fury, and the laugh that boiled out of her was violent. “Oh, is that all?” Every angle of her body was taut with rage, and the thud of her boots was thunderous as she paced back and forth. “The demon would have me watch my entire family be slaughtered _again?”_ Her breathing was ragged. “It would have me _participate?”_ She swiveled to face him in her passion, her teeth bared, and she looked for all the world like a wild animal that smelled blood on the wind, and she was _mad_ with hunger. “It dies, _now,”_ she said through her clenched jaw. “Grant me your sword arm, Alistair.”

“Always.”

He obediently followed her back out into the corridor. Her stride was dangerous, and he could practically see the murderous intent wafting off of her in callous waves, and her walk was so purposeful that her shield was bouncing against her back. He nearly had to jog to keep up with her. There was something barely controlled about her, a storm ready to crack with lightning, and as he watched her, he thought of how similar and yet how different they were: they had the same humor, and they were both schooled as knights, but discipline and composure helped him to focus, and she was fueled by resentment and vengeance. When he fought in upset, he was more prone to mistakes, or to panic, thinking too much or not enough, but the Warden went brutally efficient, as though all her fury helped her to weather the pain and the exhaustion, never tiring or slowing down even as she was stabbed or pierced with an arrow. He couldn’t imagine functioning like that, driven purely by wrath ─ and what was left, once all the rage burned out?

Perhaps hers never would. 

As he suspected, the Warden led him down the leftmost path, and it came once again to the atrium. At least he wasn’t entirely as directionless as he thought, he supposed. Still, as they passed through it, Alistair saw the font in the center of the footpath ahead of them, and he said, “I saw Oren.” He hesitated, and the Warden looked at him from over her shoulder as she took him up an incline, towards what seemed to be a cliffside. It stretched high above them, foreboding and jagged all along its surface. “I saw it pretending to be Oren,” he amended.

Something flickered over her face, and her hands clenched into fists, then relaxed, then clenched, then relaxed. “What did he look like, to you?”

“He looked a little bit like you.” That almost seemed to comfort her. She turned her face more readily towards him, and she gifted him with a small smile. “I just wanted to say ─” He wasn’t entirely sure, truthfully. She must have known, because she dipped her head in a nod. He made himself finish. “If you need to talk, when this is done . . . I’m here.”

“I know,” she acknowledged softly, and then they finished the hike up the slope. The cliff was a few hundred yards in front of them, as tall as it was wide. The Warden stopped, and Alistair took his place beside her: directly in front of them was a man, gray in his hair and light in his eyes. His clothes were expensive and fine, befitting a man of his stature, and his shoulders and his collar were lined with fur, like a true Ferelden lord. He wore no armor over his clothing, but there was a sword wielded nakedly in his hand, and a shield bearing the crest of the Couslands strapped to his arm. The Warden must have learned all she knew from him, Alistair thought, he must have taught his daughter everything there was to know about swordplay. It was absurd how much the man looked like the Warden.

“Pup,” the man said, patient and fond, “don’t be rash, my girl.”

“Don’t you call me that,” the Warden barked, and in a flash her own sword was drawn. “How dare you wear my father’s face?” Her voice was savage. “I’m going to gut you like the pig you are.”

Teryn Cousland bowed his head. “I only want for my darling girl to be happy. We were stolen from you; you’d do anything to get us back. I know you would. You could have us ─” His eyes flickered to Alistair when he lifted his head. “And him, if you’d like. I can keep him here for you. Your closest friend, and all your family. Doesn’t that sound nice, pup? He could try to make an honest woman of you, if you were so inclined. You’d want for nothing. You could have everything.” Alistair forced himself not to look at the Warden; whether or not the words bore any meaning wasn’t his place to say. He could still see her from the corner of his eye, however, and to her credit, she didn’t flinch. The Teyrn grinned, shaking his head fondly. “Ah, who am I to fool? No man or woman could tame you from the wild girl you are, and I would never have it any other way.” He gestured with his shield arm, open and inviting. “You’ve always been a woman of character. And, oh, so headstrong. Bearing the world on your shoulders. I couldn’t get you to slow down if my life depended on it.” The Warden sucked in a gasp, and her father’s smile shook into something almost malicious, before smoothing out. “Slow down now, pup. Stay here with me.”

Alistair looked to her as her arm wavered, her sword pointed threateningly at her father . . . and then, shocked, he watched her lower her weapon. Her body sagged in defeat, and her eyes were damp. “Tell me you love me.”

Teyrn Cousland smiled, beautiful and bright like his daughter. She had his mouth. “I _adore_ you, pup.”

“Tell me you’re proud of me,” she demanded through the tremble in her voice.

“I’m so proud of you, you know that. I’ve never been prouder of anything.”

She turned her head away, like the words physically cut her, and she buried her face in her hand to muffle her breathing, shallow and quick. “Tell me you miss me.”

The demon hesitated, seemingly caught off guard. “Of course I miss you,” he said slowly. “So come here, pup.” He held his arms out to her, open and inviting. “Stay with me, darling girl, so I won’t miss you any longer.”

Alistair tried to snatch at her, but she’d ducked away from him and threw herself into her father’s arms. They embraced, hard, her face buried in his shoulder while the Teyrn soothed his hand through her hair, clicking his tongue in sympathy as he rocked her side to side. Alistair looked on in abject horror, both hands gripped onto the haft of his sword in preparation to draw it, but he was unsure of how to proceed or what to do in the wake of this display. He’d have to dispel the illusion ─

The Warden leaned back, abrupt, nodding her head and smiling at the vision of her father. Alistair watched her sword arm lower to her side. “Okay,” she breathed. “Okay. Thanks for that.”

And then she stabbed him, right through the sternum, and they pitched backwards with the force of it. Her sword made a sickening sucking sound as it broke through her father’s body, so deep that Alistair could see the blade had run him completely through, and the handgrip of her sword was flush to his vulnerable chest.

Alistair reached them in only two long strides as Teyrn Cousland took up his own blade, and he threw his shield arm out beside the Warden’s head, blocking her father’s sword. The Teyrn’s blade ricocheted off of his kite, the sound of sword meeting shield booming throughout the empty clearing, and Alistair threw his arm wide with as much force as he could muster. The movement of the Teyrn’s arm being splayed jostled the Warden’s own blade, deep inside his chest, and blood poured out of the Teyrn’s mouth as the sword lacerated his insides. Alistair knocked his kite hard against the demon’s wrist; his sword went flying, and it landed with a clamor a few feet away.

“Look at me,” Teyrn Cousland said with affect, his face soaked wet and red, “and tell me if I look the same as that night, when you abandoned your house and name. You left me to _die, coward.”_ He gripped the Warden’s blade with his bare hand, ripping it out of his chest and throwing her into Alistair. They collided with a metallic _bang_ , armor striking against armor, and the weight behind the Teyrn’s arm was unnatural.

Alistair caught her ‘round the middle, helping them to balance out as they went stumbling backwards, and the Teyrn’s blade dragged sharply against the floor and then snapped into his waiting hand, like an undead Revenant pulling its victim towards it. The Warden pushed off of Alistair with a wordless yell through her teeth, and the Teyrn laughed at the sound.

“Tell me, _Warden,”_ he taunted her, “how often do you lie awake at night, haunted by the death on my face? How often do you wake up and feel my guts spilling out into your shaking hands? If you could go back to that night, would you do it differently?” He raised his arm, his sword gleaming in the Fade’s light, and spirits burst from the floor, crawling out of the earth ─ and they looked like people. Ordinary, defenseless people, small and afraid, like . . . like servants. Workers. Alistair watched the Warden’s head whip from side to side as she took the sight of them in, and the Teyrn said, “Here’s your chance, pup! Will it end the way you’ve dreamed it would, or will you kill them all again?”

Alistair shouldered past her, commanding, “Get the Teyrn. I’ve got the other ones.” 

She was sickly pale as she looked at him, her eyes wild in her mania, but she didn’t need to be told twice; she dashed towards her father, their swords meeting with a ringing clangor, and Alistair trusted her to watch herself. The servants weren’t unarmed, of course, but he was a man donned in full armor against what seemed to be servants dressed in only modest clothes, a Revered Mother, an old man in robes . . . It was practically a massacre, even as they tried to fight back with their kitchen knives. By the time he’d cut the last one down, his sword radiant with his Templar power, he felt sick ─ what sort of repugnant coward could happily slaughter an entire castle, untrained and innocent? How could any of Howe’s men possibly have gone through with it, even believing the Couslands were traitors? 

Suddenly, the Warden’s rage didn’t seem so self destructive.

Panting, he sought her out. She was engaged with her father, their swords sparking when they met, their shields battering against each other with such compulsion and volume that Alistair knew her ears must have been ringing with it. As he thought, the Warden and her father were like mirrors: it was obvious her father had taught her much of what she knew, and she’d told him before, late at night while they talked about nothing, too wired from nightmares to sleep, that her father had been a fearsome warrior, his vigor and skill matched only by his kind heart and his dutiful nature.

“How could I have raised such a coward?” the Teyrn demanded between blows, completely different from the man in the Warden’s whispered stories. “How could I have raised a girl who would run? You had a _duty_ to your family! You’re no Cousland, and no daughter of mine ─ my pup would have died if it meant her life would be spent in service, but _you,_ you ran like a craven whelp.” His shield knocked heavy into her face, and Alistair started as she jerked back, blood spouting from her nose. “You couldn’t even have the decency to die like your older brother. At least Fergus gave his life for his country ─ you gave your life to a fantasy order, desperate to survive, and you didn’t even want a place in their sacred ranks. You’re unworthy of it. All of it. You don’t deserve to bear the Grey Warden title, let alone the Cousland name. You’re _nothing.”_

She’d told Alistair so before. She hadn’t wanted to be a Warden. He watched, shifting on his feet urgently, but he didn’t intervene ─ the Warden wasn’t helpless, not yet, and he knew her. He knew she would want the honor of cutting the demon down.

“If you wanted to be worthy, you should have died with us,” Teyrn Cousland breathed, “as it is your duty, to defend your family, your land, your name, your country ─ to the death, if need be.” Their swords connected awkwardly, and they both heaved forward, interlocked in a standoff with their blades. “A Cousland _always_ does their duty ─”

The Warden’s eyes were alight; she jerked their arms up, slamming her shield forward at the same exact moment, and the point of her kite pierced the demon’s stomach hard. “With justice,” she growled through clenched teeth, blood spilled down her face, just like her father’s, “and temperance.” 

And then she forced him away, the nearly blunt edge of her shield ripping out of the Teyrn’s flesh. He jolted backwards, and the Warden was on him again in only a heartbeat, her blade sinking deep into his skull; she’d stabbed him in the soft, vulnerable spot under his jaw, straight up through his head like a pike, and she wrenched her blade out violently once the Teyrn went shock-still with death.

He collapsed to his knees, but Alistair could feel it: an energy, still thrumming with life and malice. The demon wasn’t dead, not yet, and he adjusted his grip on his sword as he sidled closer to the cliff. “It’s hurt,” he told her as Teyrn Cousland’s body murmured, and then it was gone. The Warden seemed to sense it, as well, because her guard never faltered, and she was careful in her footwork as she pirouetted in slow circles, searching for the beast.

It came not long after. An arrow whizzed by the Warden’s head, and she only just heard it in time by a second ─ it splintered apart as it collided into her shield, the force behind it so intense that she actually lurched with it.

This time, it was a woman: she stood near the mouth of the decline, a ceremonial bow in her hands, arrow nocked in preparation. Her eyes were sharp and piercing and blue, just like the Warden’s, and her voice was just as vicious. “How could you? Your own father. You shame us all, you selfish, selfish girl. We gave you life. We gave you _everything._ You would throw it away?” The Warden’s shield stayed raised defensively. “You couldn’t even save a single child,” the Teyrna hissed, and her brows were drawn low and furious; the Warden was practically a mirror of her. “What makes you think you could save an entire country? This sad little quest of yours is doomed to fail. Why pretend otherwise? Why pretend you’re fit to lead, when you flee even when your own blood lies dying, when your ancestral home goes up in flames around your ears? How could you possibly handle a _country_ engulfed in fire?” 

“Don’t listen,” Alistair said, and the Teyrna shifted her stance so quickly that he only just managed to block the arrow she loosed at him. 

“Quiet,” she commanded, in the sort of tone only a noble could perfect, and she turned her eyes back to her daughter. “It will be the same, my dear girl, mark my words. When it comes time to make sacrifices, you will bend the knee and let others die in your stead,” the Teyrna warned. A man emerged from behind her, seemingly out of nowhere, as if to make the Teyrna’s point, and he was strong in his jaw and red of hair. His shield was embellished with those twin laurels, the coat of arms of the Couslands. “You let Ser Gilmore die,” Teyrna Cousland accused. “Who else would you allow to sacrifice themselves for you?” The sound of her arrow dragging against her quiver as she pulled it free was foreboding. “How about this strapping young man? _Alistair.”_

Oh, he didn’t like the sound of that. 

“What will it be if it comes to that?” the Teyrna goaded. “You, or him? Will you make a sacrifice, or take a sacrifice?” Her cheeks dimpled the very same way the Warden’s did when she smiled. “You must know he’s in danger here. We’d never hurt you, not willingly, but he’s an intruder. You can still be the girl I know you to be: obedient and clever.” Alistair tried to catch the Warden’s eyes, but they were fixed on her mother, unblinking. “Stay with us,” the Teyrna went on, “and he can leave. You can make it right. You can make _amends,_ my darling girl, and wouldn’t that be noble? To give back the very same gift we’ve given you? Our lives for yours, and yours for ours. Oh, and you’d be so happy with me, my love. There’s so much we’ve yet to speak of, so much I’ve yet to give you. Stay here, pup, and the man may go, and he’ll save the world, the way you know he will, and you will never have to choose between you or him, or him and another, or you and another . . . You could be here, with our family, the way it was always meant to be.”

Alistair wasn’t having any more of this. “Oh, for the _love_ of ─” He cut himself off, gesturing angrily to the Warden. “It won’t come to that. We won’t let it come to that. Kill her!”

That seemed to snap the Warden out of it, and she went flying without a word; she blocked the arrow the Teyrna shot at her, and her blade met the handguards of her mother’s dual daggers when she swung it down. They struggled for a long moment, but Alistair found he couldn’t help ─ the other spirit, Ser Gilmore he presumed, was upon him before he could dart for the Warden.

 _This_ was a much fairer battle; at least for the spirit. Each crushing thrust of its sword was so great that Alistair could feel the vibration of it in his own blade, in his teeth, in his bones. It didn’t tire, not like a human did, and the strikes never got weaker with fatigue, the spirit never got winded with exertion, and it was all Alistair could do not to lower his defense. He wasn’t exhausted yet, but he was fast approaching it as he parried each swing, blocked each stab, but whoever this Ser Gilmore had been, he was a worthy adversary, that much was apparent, and his competency was only amplified by the demon’s unnatural power. Once this was over, he was going to extort Morrigan into giving him a well deserved backrub, Maker help him.

When Ser Gilmore’s sword caught heavy and immovable against his own, locking them together, he chanced a glance towards the Warden. She was ducking under the cut of a dagger, fending off the other blade with her shield, and the Teyrna was drenched in blood. He shoved his own demon back as he watched the Warden throw herself forward, and her mother made a sick sound as the blade hit true and skewered her in the middle. Unable to stop himself, alight with pride for her, he whooped to the Warden, a battle cheer, and then clumsily deflected Ser Gilmore’s blade. _Okay, Alistair, focus._

“Please,” the Teyrna wept, gurgling with agony, but Alistair was no longer watching; he was fixed on his own battle ─ at last he’d dragged his blade across Ser Gilmore’s belly, but no viscera spilled out, and the man didn’t even flinch. The Warden’s mother was still begging. “Please don’t do this, my beautiful, darling girl. Don’t let me die ─ not again. Don’t kill me again.” 

Alistair heard something wet and squishy, then, and the Warden retched out a wounded noise of her own. Panicked, he looked to her ─ she had her blade halfway through her kneeling mother’s face, but the Teyrna had lodged her own weapon up and it had pierced her forearm. The wound wasn’t bad: the blade hadn’t gone all the way through, and it was an awkward angle, likely not severing anything particularly vital to survival. The Warden threw her sword aside and the motion sent the Teyrna sprawling to the floor. Her daughter’s arms braced with fury, and Alistair watched in a mixture of disgust and sympathy as she lifted her leg and smashed her foot into the demon’s head, over and over and over, until the sound was mushy and grotesque; he was glad he couldn’t see it from where he was standing.

Little bit of a mistake, however, to have turned his attention away from the blade threatening _him._ Ser Gilmore took advantage of his worried preoccupation, and Alistair flinched when the man’s shield knocked his sword arm away from him, his shoulder spasming from the ungainly twist, and then the demon’s blade made itself a home deep in Alistair’s side.

The pain was sunbright, and it burst into his stomach when he drew in a shuddered breath. Adrenaline had him gritting his teeth through it, and he slammed the butt of his pommel into the demon’s temple. Its head snapped out, and Alistair used the momentum of his blow to hit the hilt into the exposed swath of Ser Gilmore’s throat. Something cracked inside it, broken, and Alistair drove the demon back with the sole of his boot against its stomach. It teetered backwards, its head disturbingly loose on its neck, and Alistair choked out an unwilling gasp as the sword left his gut with a sickening _squelch._

Another’s blade passed through Ser Gilmore’s throat, clean and practiced, and Alistair clutched at his wound fervently as the demon’s head rolled off its body, thumping against the floor almost comically, and the demon shimmered into nothing, gone from sight. Wounded, but still yet alive. Alistair could feel it. He set his jaw, and his sword began to glow; wherever the demon was, he was draining its mana. It would be weak when it faced them again. No more hiding, no more recuperating.

The Warden stood by, her brow drawn in determination and her sword flung out from where she’d beheaded Ser Gilmore. She looked impressively calm, considering, but when Alistair pried his shield arm away from his stomach, when his kite no longer obscured the wound, her composure fractured again.

“It’s fine,” he said thickly, after he saw the way she was gawking at the stream of red decorating his stomach, his hip, his thigh. His palm was sticky with it, too. There was a _lot_ of blood. Too much. The Warden knew it as well, and she looked stricken. “It’s fine,” he echoed, pressing down hard on the wound to stem the flow.

“It’s not.” Her voice was shaky.

“It’s not,” he conceded, “but it will be. The font, you remember that? I can use it. Once this demon is dead, it’ll heal me,” he gestured vaguely, feeling sweaty and flushed, “and it’ll be like I never got hurt. Honestly. Stab me again! It’ll go away. Seriously, if you’ve ever wished harm on me, this is the time to live out your wildest fantasies. Watch, give me your sword, I’ll juggle them. Next time you see me, I’ll still have both hands.”

Oren’s voice interrupted. “What did I say?” The Warden reared in front of Alistair, shield raised protectively, and if he weren’t so dazed he might have been flattered. Oren stood in the center of the stage, small and defenseless and covered in blood. The demon had changed shape, but couldn’t yet heal; Alistair congratulated himself. “Yet another makes a sacrifice, so that you might live. Typical of you, auntie, to demand others die on your behalf. Sad to think it could have all been avoided, isn’t it?” He sounded almost amused. “Perhaps it still can. You may engage me, if you wish, and I’ll even admit that you may very well win ─ but at what cost? You must know I will struggle against you. If he dies before I do, he won’t wake up.” Oren held his arms out in invitation. “But stay with me, and I can heal him. I have that power; this is _my_ demesne. All I need from you,” he said, sweetly, “is but a fraction of your own power.” His arms lowered to his side, easy. “Is that not noble? Is that not honorable? Is that not selfless?”

Even in his haze, Alistair knew of mercy; he reached out taking the Warden’s shoulder in hand. She looked at him, her eyes wide and damp, and he urged her away so that he might move forward of his own accord. “Ready yourself,” he told her, gently. She nodded her head, once, twice, and she looked nauseous.

Alistair took no pleasure in watching the panic well up in the demon’s face; even if it was a false child, it seemed to be a normal boy nonetheless, and the off-putting expression of fright it wore was abhorrent. He hated facing it, and he hated the idea of the Warden facing it; so they wouldn’t.

After all, if there was _one_ thing Alistair was, it was _wilful._

The purge of magic came as another burst, so bright it was almost blinding as Alistair called upon his physical will to dispel its illusion; as soon as the light had cleared, the demon was plain and undisguised before them, and the Warden showed no hesitation. She was upon it in a heartbeat and Alistair stumbled blearily closer, his arm throbbing from the overuse of his powers, and he watched as she destroyed it. It was savage, and vicious, and hateful, and Alistair was glad not to be on that side of her as he sheathed his sword.

It took only a minute; even as the demon fought back, she was brutal and merciless, and he felt it, this time. That same lifeforce, draining away. He clutched at his sword arm, each painful pulse along the limb making the wound on his stomach seem to pump out another fresh ebb of blood.

The Warden righted herself, soaked in ichor, but Alistair noticed the tears first, streaking down her cheeks in fat droplets, her mouth pulled tight; she looked so helpless, and it broke his heart. He reached out to her, and the Warden’s sword hit the floor when she reeled towards him as quick as she could. She reached back for him in return, and he could see her gleaming, flickering like Morrigan and Wynne had before her. Urgency made him break for her, to try and meet her halfway as she bolted to him. She’d just fallen into his chest when she was suddenly gone, and his arms closed around nothing, pressing into his own waist. 

For a long moment, he stood there alone with his eyes squeezed shut, breathing raggedly as his arms dammed the wound on his gut. When he opened his eyes, he could see the Warden’s blade had disappeared along with her; he had no idea where she was, where any of them were, but his work wasn’t done yet. He was close, though. So close. The Circle needed them; his _friends_ needed _him._

Resolved now more than ever, Alistair staggered to the font, leaving a trail of red behind him.

He felt strong again when he invaded the sloth demon’s personal domain. The creature itself was stationed just ahead of him, looking entirely unsurprised to see Alistair there, uninvited as he was. As soon as his boot hit the floor, he sucked in a steady breath, feeling his diaphragm expand with no pain behind it. He was whole again. The wound was gone, and his armor was pristine ─ the real relief, however, came when his companions followed after him. They weren’t there at first, and then they were, all three of them at once. Alistair watched as they glittered into view, a grin spreading over his face, and he couldn’t stop himself. He pivoted to face the sloth demon, installed in the center of the massive area, and barked, _“Ha!_ I’ve done it! All your nightmares, all your little minions, and I’ve _beaten them!_ You didn’t expect _me,_ did you? More’s the pity!” 

“Quiet,” the sloth demon said through a yawn, “I find your yammering . . . tiresome. Disturbing.”

“Don’t we all,” Morrigan drawled from behind him, and Alistair shot her a nasty look.

“Allow me to remind you that I saved you from your mother,” he pointed out in annoyance ─ but as he looked over his shoulder, he caught the Warden staring at him, and the strained look she was giving him was melancholy and bittersweet. Whatever he was about to say next faltered on his tongue, and he tilted himself just slightly to face her.

Then Morrigan smirked, and broke the spell. “I will not allow it. Next request.”

“You will not hold us, demon,” Wynne cut in vehemently. The strength of her voice bolstered Alistair once again, and he reluctantly tore his eyes from the Warden’s, turning them back to the sloth demon. Wynne had taken a step forward, her arm raised to grip the wood of her staff. “You cannot keep us here. We found each other in this place and you cannot stand against us.”

Morrigan spoke next, her voice steely and dripping with ice. “Indeed. You made a _dangerous_ enemy, demon, by toying with _my_ mind.”

The Warden said nothing.

“I can do better,” the sloth demon assured them, easy and slow. “Much, much better. I’ve learned, now. I’ve learned where I’ve gone wrong. Allow me to try once more. Go back to sleep. If you go back quietly, I’ll make it better this time. You’ll be so much happier. You’ll want for nothing.”

Alistair dragged his blade along the grain of his sheath in an audible threat, flicking it out with a flourish. “Not a chance. Save your speeches; we’ll hear none of them.”

The sloth demon tilted back in amusement, its face pulled into an eternal grin, all teeth, wrinkled and pulled skin, a dehydrated mummy, thin and gangly all over ─ and yet, somehow, still intimidating, its crown resting heavy over its eyes and its shoulders broad with the cloth wrap that adorned them. “You wish to battle me? So be it. You will learn to bow to your betters, mortal.”

In the end, it was the demon who bowed.

When next Alistair opened his eyes, the first thing he became aware of was the burning of his sword arm, so harrowing that he jerked half-upright in shock with a strangled noise. Mindless in his frenzy, he clutched at his armor, dragging his fingers against the curve of it and pulling in an attempt to hastily pry it off, but it was strapped on tight. The pain was only made worse as he uselessly tugged at the metal and leather adorning him, and he ended up curled on his side, cradling his shaking arm to his chest and gasping in watery breaths while he tried to breathe through the agony. It was as though there was molten hot metal wrapped around his arm, drawn so taut and so close to his skin that it was burning indents into his very muscle, a vambrace ten sizes too small that felt as though it would sever his arm into pieces. Each pound of his heart made his arm thrum in time, and he wasn’t aware he’d been making sound until he heard the Warden call his name in alarm. There was blood in his hair, sticky and drying, and he blinked as he found himself meeting Niall’s empty gaze.

The Warden grabbed him by the shoulder, then, and hauled him until he was flat on his back once more. He hissed, his arm spasming as he caged it hard against his torso, but she didn’t even meet his eye as she hovered over him; her face was set, stony, as she wrested his grip away from himself, her voice low and commanding when she said, “Let me see.” She stripped his gauntlet off with experienced finesse and she peeled the maille glove from his skin immediately after, then flattened her mouth as she took the sight of him in. His arm was a dark, angry red, unnaturally so, almost like he’d dipped it in blood, and Alistair’s breath escaped him in a wheeze. The Warden’s throat worked as she swallowed.

“Holy Maker,” Wynne said, leaning over him from her spot on the floor, “what have you done?” Her gray hair was stained red with blood as well, and she was balanced on both palms and a hip.

Alistair knew exactly what he’d done as soon as he’d seen it. Feverish with pain, he choked out, “You mages draw the Fade into the real world when you cast. I drew the real world into the Fade.” And practically boiled all of the blood in his arm in the process, evidently.

If he wasn’t so sick with anguish as it pulsed into his chest from his arm in nauseating waves, he might have noticed that Morrigan almost looked impressed as she stood over them, peering down her nose at him. “You mean to say you channeled the _real world_ through your physical body, as a mage would channel the Fade through their spiritual connection to it? That is . . . most interesting.”

“And most excruciating,” he said through gritted teeth. “Sweet Maker, give me something, anything. A poultice, a healing spell, one of our mabari’s chewing bones to bite into, a kick to the head. Holy Andraste, prophet and bride, smother me in your bosom, I beg you.”

Morrigan rolled her eyes. “The pain can’t be so great if the man still has the presence of mind to joke,” she mused, but she’d turned away in seeming disinterest and left them to their own devices.

Wynne’s hands were cool on his arm, and the healing magic she channeled into him was a phenomenal relief. He hadn’t realized how tense and drawn he was until he sagged against the floor, his haggard breathing calming as he practiced his breathing techniques ─ blasted Templar techniques, at that, as though it wasn’t the practice of magic purging that got him into this tizzy in the first place. Irony was a cruel bitch. So was Morrigan. The thought made him laugh, pain-drunk in his stupor, and the Warden was uncorking a poultice with her teeth as Wynne attended to him with a focus she’d had many long years to perfect.

“I’m certain you wish you weren’t so resistant to magic now, don’t you?” she prodded, almost plucky, and Alistair breathed out a laugh.

“You can say that again,” he agreed, “and I’m not even as sauced up as those other knights.” Wynne’s hands left his skin as the Warden’s took over, smearing the slick poultice over his irritated, stung arm. He clenched his teeth through it, but it was far more bearable than it had been before, and it had even faded in color. He supposed he ought to show his gratitude. “Thank you, my lady,” he said to Wynne, and the smile she gave him instantly endeared her to him. He decided, then and there, that she wasn’t so bad for a mage.

“I should thank _you.”_ She wiped at the blood on her face, frowning at her fingers in disgust. “You were exactly what we needed, exactly when we needed it.”

His cheeks were already flushed, but he was certain they’d gone darker still. “And I looked rather dashing when I saved everyone’s lives, I take it?” he deflected.

“Very much so,” Wynne agreed, her eyes twinkling with her mirth. “Next time, however, perhaps we can be more considerate of our limits. Your abilities came with great application, and I’m glad for them, but overexerting yourself will only lead to greater harm in the end ─ and skills such as yours are worth preserving, Alistair. You’d do well to remember that, much like your sword, your body is as much of a weapon: as you polish and sharpen your blade, as you fortify it against overuse, you must do the very same for yourself.”

He couldn’t handle sincerity, not right now. He still felt carved into and spread out, like his ribs and everything underneath were on display, from his dream with Duncan ─ that exchange had been cutting. He didn’t want to be known. He didn’t want to inevitably disappoint this kind, stern old woman. He fell into old habits, playing it off with, “Are you encouraging me to _polish my bodily sword?_ Naughty. Most of the old women in my life have expressly told me _not_ to do that.”

A startled laugh broke from her, and she regarded him with a much warmer expression than what she’d granted the Warden or Morrigan before. If he didn’t know any better, he’d almost think she was starting to like him. “Right they are. You’ll get struck by lightning, otherwise.”

“And then the end of civilization as we know it.” He grinned at her, and she smiled back just as broadly. The Warden finished smearing him in healing oil, and despite the palpable relief in the room, hers was the only countenance still dark. Her blue eyes were fixed on Alistair’s arm as she helped him slide his maille on, and she tightened the buckles of his gauntlet with as much care as she could muster. She didn’t look him in the eye.

“We have to move,” she said thinly, as soon as Alistair’s arm was whole again. She hoisted herself to her feet, politely helping Wynne up as well. “We’ve already wasted precious time under this ─ this _demon’s_ influence. We can’t waste any more.”

Morrigan turned to face them, smiling decadently. “A most sensible attitude.” As though she were holding a dead fish, she procured a scroll from behind herself, held precariously in delicate fingers. “Our foolish apprentice has made good on his word, at least. The Litany was on his person. ‘Tis such a shame he was too weak to resist,” she said, in a tone that indicated she didn’t think it was a shame at all as she handed the scroll off to the Warden, “but a man who allows himself to bend to the chain will _hang_ from the chain.” She was looking pointedly at Wynne as she said it, and Wynne glowered at her darkly in return. Alistair felt defensive on her behalf.

“Nice,” he said snippily, heaving himself to his feet. “Really. Shall we spit on his corpse, too?” Morrigan leaned over the body, mouth puckered, and he lunged forward as a threat. “Don’t you dare. I will smite you. I’m not joking.”

Her laughter was musical and wicked. “By all means! Perhaps the arm will fall off entirely. We’ll have to put you down like a lame war hound.” She tutted in condescending sympathy.

“Funny, because the only war bitch I know of in this little party is _you.”_

The Warden had been poring over the script of the Litany as they went at it, but the roll of it as she furled it up again made the two of them pause. “Enough. There’s little time to waste now. Things get worse the further we go up; will you be all right to fight, Alistair?”

“Easily.” To prove his point, he held his arm up, flexing his bicep hard. It ached, but the healing magic and the poultice helped much. He’d complete their task, wholeheartedly, and afford himself some rest later. “As limber as a Denerim whore, trust me, and twice as vigorous.” The slick of the poultice under his maille made him add, “And about as oiled up, too.”

Finally, the Warden cracked, just a little. The corner of her mouth twitched upwards, and her eyes were softer as she looked at him. The cascades of dark hair that fell around her ears as she nodded seemed almost blue in the pale dim of the Circle. Behind her, Morrigan was rolling her eyes in one long, exaggerated motion, disgust curling her lip. “Let’s be quick, then. I’m disinclined to linger any longer here.” The Warden glanced at Wynne. “No offense.”

“Frankly, I agree,” Wynne deadpanned, and the Warden’s smile grew a little more.

“Right,” she said, and she smacked the scroll against her palm, once, twice, and then deposited it into her pack. “Then on me,” she commanded, breezing by the lot of them and leading them further into the tower. Even from behind, she looked steadfast. It was the easiest thing in the world to fall into line behind her. “This ends now. Kill any demon, and spare any innocent.”

He was the new favorite, he could tell. 

Even after the eventful day she’d had, Wynne had rolled up her sleeves and made dinner for their growing entourage; she’d told Alistair she wanted to make a good impression with her new companions, and that it was the least she could do to show her gratitude for what the Warden had done for the tower. After all, she could have very well let the Templars purge the hold, destroying every last mage within its walls. They would have had an expansive and devoted Templar army, single-minded in their servitude to the Maker and to the Warden. 

Alistair took great pride in telling Wynne that, no, actually, she couldn’t have done that. The Warden was compassionate, and she wouldn’t have found the pragmatism in her heart to allow those innocents to be slaughtered. No matter the labor, she would have spared the mages. 

And spare them she had. Well, as many as she could have, at the very least: many had died, of course, but many yet lived as well. The Litany was invaluable when they’d confronted Uldred, and those of the mages still trapped within the chamber had escaped with their lives despite it all. Wynne’s apprentices, too, stayed safe behind the barrier, and all circumstances considered, it went as well as it possibly could have, Alistair thought. Many denizens of the tower were safe, as were many of the Templars. Their losses were felt heavy in the hearts of their comrades, but they pledged their service gladly in the Warden’s name, under the Grey Warden banner. The Templars would remain at the Circle, but the Wardens now had their mages.

(Admittedly, however, Alistair had feared _very much_ for a certain traumatized Templar’s life when he insisted _all_ the mages be executed ─ the Warden had whirled on him so violently that Alistair was certain she put the fear of the Maker into him as she barked her refusal into his face, nose-to-nose with him, somehow intimidating even on her tiptoes. Or, perhaps, it was the fear of the Warden. They felt much the same: an indestructible, invincible power-that-be, alight with righteous fury, wielding condemnations that cut like knives. Her disapproval felt like damnation.)

Alistair had gotten _quite_ the scolding when he’d drawn holy fire down and used it to smite the beast Uldred had become. His arm was _fine,_ but Wynne was adamant he should not worsen the inflammation, lest it end up decidedly not fine. She’d lectured him about taking care of himself during the entire ferry ride back to the tiny dock near the Spoiled Princess, and even when they’d taken to the Imperial Highway. It wasn’t entirely unwelcome, though: he could tell it came from a place of wisdom and experience and, more shockingly, concern. As she’d gone on at length, he started to see her less as a preaching schoolmistress and more like a woman who had lived through much, and wanted to use her experiences to lessen the suffering of others.

At first, he’d thought it was because he was . . . familiar. He’d trained as a Templar, after all, and that was what she was used to. Once she’d gotten the sermon out of her system, however, she’d talked freely with him; they’d chatted about her days at the Circle, and his days at the monastery and his disinterest in it, and she’d laughed and hadn’t seemed at all deterred by his dislike of the Templars and the Chantry. In fact, she’d even ganged up on Morrigan with him when she’d inserted herself into the conversation to debate the ethics of slaughtering Templars for sport, and disparaging the so-called education of Circle mages.

“And _why_ are you grinning like that, Alistair?” she’d asked, at the end of a shocking tale she’d been telling him of a young mage she’d tutored; the boy had tried to, ahem, warm his hand up with magic to enhance the sensation of, ah ─ well, the point was, he’d burned himself, rather badly at that.

“Just a funny story. It _was_ meant to be funny, wasn’t it? Was I supposed to be taking that seriously? Wait, tell it again. I’ll look properly despondent on his behalf, this time.” Somehow, he felt as though she understood that it wasn’t just a funny story at all, and she smiled back indulgently.

Once they’d pitched camp, he’d offered to at least help her with supper, and she’d shooed him away, cheerfully and matronly ─ it almost reminded him of the cook from Arl Eamon’s estate. He’d been but a child, and he’d begged his way back into the kitchen more than once, and the old crone would playfully roll her eyes and sneak him a spoon of sweet marmalade, or usher him out the door with a handful of juicy cherries. If he were _really_ lucky, he’d sometimes get a little meat pie, so long as he gave the cook his word that he would still be hungry for supper later. He heard her talking to the undercook, once; she’d said she’d pitied him, _“the poor dear.”_ Even at the time, the words had made his stomach churn, but all these years later, he could appreciate her kindness. He was a pitiable boy, or so went the rumor.

Once Wynne had finished preparing dinner ─ it was a heartwarming kind of stew, the kind of stew that a mother with no land and no coin would prepare, humble but full of care and healthy intent ─ he’d gotten the biggest serving, and the Warden had glared daggers at him; she was eating more and more these days, insatiable, and Alistair rubbed it in just a little, and very soundly enjoyed it.

So maybe he was basking in it. What could he say? Old ladies loved him. He was charming and adorable, it was a curse. 

After, though, they’d all retired quietly to their own spaces, exhausted in their own rights ─ save, perhaps, for Morrigan, who was bright-eyed and nearly panting as she pored through the leather-bound tome the Warden had found for her. Flemeth’s grimoire, evidently, and Alistair had given her an uncertain, shifty look when the Warden placed the book into her eager, greedy, horrible little hands. _What might a witch like her do with a thing like that?_ he hoped his eyes said.

The Warden’s eyes had been unreadable, and then she’d turned away.

Under the starlight, Alistair held his sword arm over him as he lounged on the grass, and the chilly evening air was nice against the fever pitch of his skin. It was still an irritated red, more intense towards his hand ─ the gathering point of his power. When he flexed his fingers, he could feel bolts of throbbing aches, but it was far more palatable than it had been after they’d woken up. 

Ah, waking up. He was trying very hard not to think much about what he’d seen and said in the Fade. It felt too much to unpack all at once, and he was slow about how he picked through it; a tangled knot, where one wrong pluck on a thread would tighten it into a thatch that was impossible to unmuddle. He had to start slow and easy and gentle, follow a single long line of thought until he’d freed it from the mess, one at a time.

Soon it would be too cold, and he’d have to pile into his tent, but for the time being, he was happy to enjoy the breeze and think only of how they were one step closer to ending the Blight. They had mages, and the dwarves and the elves would come next. It had seemed an insurmountable task, truly, and Alistair would have committed himself to the cause no matter what. He would have given life and blood for Ferelden, and he was fully prepared to . . . but it was nice to have a modicum of faith restored, to have the hope that, maybe, this wasn’t such an impossible undertaking after all. The whispers of an army were already beginning, the low thrum of potential pulsing in Alistair’s blood and making his arm sing with it.

The Warden stood over him then, her dark shape blocking out the light of Ferelden’s twin moons. She was dressed down and her hair was wet, wearing a tunic and simple breeches and nothing else. For some reason, he found it strange to see her barefoot. Alistair looked at her through his spread fingers, watching her go blurry as he focused on them, and then his hand go blurry as he focused on her. They’d hardly spoken since the Circle; not because they were upset with each other, never that, but she’d seemed lost in her own thoughts, and even when he’d tried to quip at her during dinner, she’d only been able to offer him half-hearted taunts and thin smiles. Eventually, he tilted his head to the side so that he might see her face fully, unobstructed by his crooked fingers. “What do you need?”

The wind almost seemed to move her, and she swayed side to side for a moment while she looked down at him. Then, gingerly, and lowered herself to her knees beside him, and rolled onto her back to lie with him. He felt his cheeks starting to heat up, despite the space between them being ample and appropriate. He hadn’t been ready to admit to what he’d wanted, but now that the demon had forced his hand, he was very quickly finding it harder to resist the urge to stare at her, or to make her laugh, or to be close to her. 

She gestured to his outstretched arm. “Does it hurt?”

“Mm.” He held it over her, letting her examine it, and she gently ran the pads of her fingers along the vein on the inside of his wrist. Her skin was cool against his. “Not particularly. Only when I squeeze.” 

She clasped her hands over her belly, a playful tilt to her brow. “Don’t squeeze, then.”

Rolling his eyes, he mimicked her: his hands twined together over his abdomen, and he crossed his legs at the ankles. “Ah! Yes, of course! You’re right, how silly of me. I was _wondering_ what I could possibly do to prevent the pain. What ever would I do without you, you clever girl? Speaking of, will you help me take my boots off? I can’t figure out the buckles.”

Her laughter was bright and genuine. Alistair smiled at her, letting his eyes skip over the planes of her face: her skin was clear from her wash, rinsed of the blood from the Circle, and the sweep of her cheekbones were dusted pink from the chill of the evening air. She was smiling back. Carefully, he reached out and took the ends of her wet hair in his fingers. 

“You’ll catch your death,” he said sternly, holding her hair up between them disapprovingly. She waved him off.

“Now now, Alistair.” The sparkle of her eyes made his stomach twist pleasantly, his breath coming just a little quicker. “You ought to know by now that death will never catch me.”

He remembered, then, what the demon had said. It was worse during the Blight. _That doesn’t mean_ **_you_ ** _can’t catch_ **_it,_ ** he thought uneasily, still able to feel the give of her flesh in his arm when he plunged his knife into her over and over. There was an anxious sort of curiosity, nagging and disturbing, in how he wondered what her face had looked like under his shield; had it gone slack with death? Had it gone tight with agony? What would the Warden look like when she was withered from taint? What would the Warden look like when she was dying? When she was dead?

Her expression had dimmed as he studied her, as though she knew what he was thinking. The grass under her made a soft sound as she shifted, her fingers wrapping around his wrist. “When I asked you to give me your arm,” she said softly, “I didn’t mean it quite so literally.”

The words stole the breath from him, and he could feel his mouth pulling into a grin. It was so easy to admit, “Ask it of me, and I’d give the whole thing up to you completely.” He knew she never would. The dream had made that abundantly clear; as did the look of heartache she was giving him, caught somewhere between gratitude and despair. Truthfully, she never need ask; he’d have given it to her anyway. Her own fingers had gone loose around him, and he let the weight of his arm sink, until their hands were settled together. The leather of his burnt skin dragged strangely against her fingers, as though he were wearing a glove, but the press of their hands together was naked and complete and whole.

“I never thanked you,” she said in a rush. “For ─ for coming to me. In the Fade.”

Their hands drifted naturally back to their own respective bellies. He missed the feel of her almost instantly. It was foolish to think he could have possibly gone back to ignoring what he felt for her, now that it was out in the open where he could see it. Acknowledging it had only made the forbidden fruit taste sweeter. “And you don’t need to.”

The swell of her lip went pale as she sucked it into her mouth, and he watched, fascinated, as the blood returned it to its pretty flush when she let it go. “Yes, I do. If it weren’t for you, I ─”

“No way,” he interrupted, “you would have realized it. Didn’t we just go over how clever you are? Surely you haven’t forgotten already. Boots, remember?”

“Maybe I would have. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered, either way.” Alistair couldn’t stop the startled drop of his mouth. “Without you in front of me, I might not have remembered why we struggle in the dark.”

“I don’t believe that.” He shook his head, much as he could lying down. “Not for one second. You’d never willingly give up. Not you.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Somehow she held his gaze, but her mouth was tight. “Didn’t I already? I believed it. A silly little trick, and I was at its mercy. I didn’t question any of it. I believed it was real.”

He wanted to reach out and touch her, but he held himself still. “The Fade isn’t like this world,” he reminded her gently. “It doesn’t work the same. It _was_ real. Those were your memories; your real memories. The temptation of the Fade isn’t in a lie ─ it’s in a reminder. Demons can only construct with what you give them. The Fade is full of things that seem and feel real, because they _are_ real. To you, they are. But demons ─ demons _twist_ it. They make it wrong. They take something real, and something good, and they change it. That’s when it becomes a lie, but it was a truth first. It was always a truth first.”

Her eyes traced over his face. “What did you dream about, Alistair?”

He wanted to play it off, say something raunchy, or something fantastic ─ _I dreamed about living in a world made out of crushed velvet! Everything was so very, very soft!_ ─ but the vulnerability in her voice stopped him. She must have heard the hitch in his breath, because she lowered her eyes, as though she was ashamed to have asked.

What the demon had said was true: he was scared of it. The Warden was devastating and dangerous and wildly competent. Her conviction seemed unwavering, and her resolve bolstered him, and many others. He never felt more sure of anything than when he was at her back, her sword raised high, her shoulders broad and straight. If they had one chance of getting this right, it lay with her. How could a man possibly measure up, next to a person like that? Who was he beside her? Beside Duncan?

“I was at Weisshaupt,” he said quietly. Her eyes snapped up to his face again. “The Grey Warden fortress, thousands of miles from here. You remember.” She nodded. “I was there with Duncan. I’d saved him. Not at Ostagar ─ from the archdemon. I threw myself in front of him, and I’d saved him.” Recollection made the laceration fresh again, and he kept his gaze fixed on the stars above him; he couldn’t look at her and see sympathy, not while the wounds still bled. “He was alive, and we’d beaten the Blight. Drove the darkspawn back to the Wilds, back underground. He was to prepare me for the Thaw Hunt ─ what comes after,” he explained, when he realized she likely hadn’t heard of it. “Small teams, dispatched to deal with the last few pockets of darkspawn yet resisting, or to cut them off at the passes lest they burrow underground and replenish their numbers. I was going to live with all the other Wardens. The ones who have since died.” He could have stopped there. Maybe he should have. He didn’t. “You were there with me.”

The smile he could hear in her voice was breathless. “I was?”

“Well. My memory of you was. It wasn’t _really_ you. But you were there, yes. I suppose I ─ I suppose I remember what you said to me, before. About your home being with the Wardens.” _With me._ “But it was just a dream.”

He hadn’t noticed how close she’d gotten until he suddenly breathed in the smell of her soaps. He turned his head to face her, and they were nearly shoulder to shoulder, only an inch away. She was angled awkwardly, almost diagonally, so she could be near him. “Was yours as awful as mine?”

“Yes.” His voice was rough. “The hardest part was remembering Duncan was dead. It was like losing him all over again.” He hadn’t meant to say it, but it had come out easily with her. “Did it feel like that for you, too?”

“Yes.” The wet strands of her hair over her forehead were flattened to her skin, and he had to resist the urge to brush them away. “It felt like failing them.” Her smile was wry. “It seems I have a talent for seeking endless ways to disappoint my family.”

“They wouldn’t be disappointed in you.” He turned his eyes back to the sky. “Not for this. They’d be sorry for you. Sorry to know that you feel as though you’ve failed them, even as you _know_ you didn’t.” The sigh that escaped him was louder than he intended. “But what we feel and what we know are often entirely different, aren’t they?" He didn’t give her the chance to answer. “Everything you heard . . . they were just your own doubts. Nothing more than that. You had no choice, you _know_ you had no choice. Maybe you would have felt better if you died with them. I would have. With Duncan. It would have been easier, certainly, but the easier path isn’t usually the right one. We have a responsibility now; we have to bear the tragedy, and move forward. It’s the least we can do to honor their memories, but there are people who still live who need us, badly. We have to move forward.” When he looked at her, she gave him pause. “What? What’s that face? Oh, please don’t start crying. I can’t handle when women cry, I really can’t. If you start crying, I’ll start crying, and it’ll all be so very sad and ugly and _moist.”_

“Please don’t say you’d have felt better if you died,” she said thickly, and he could hear in her voice how her throat had closed up. “Alistair, please.”

Alistair couldn’t help himself; his laughter came rumbling out of him in a pleased timbre. “Wouldn’t you have?”

“But ─” 

He raised his wounded arm, pressing his pinky and ring finger against her mouth to quiet her. His skin was so hot that even her breath felt cool against him. “I saw it,” he told her, meeting her eyes. “In your dream, I saw it. I see it now ─ you feel you’ve failed them. You haven’t. You did what was necessary, and you know that. But you still feel that you should have died with them. The first thing to do is to admit it.” Her eyelashes were long and wet as she blinked at him, and he pulled his hand away from her. “And then you carry the burden, and go on living, because you have a duty. People rely on you.” He shifted a little closer, pressed his own shoulder along hers. “I’ll carry it with you.”

They were both angled now, meeting together like the point of an arrow, and the contact pierced him just as sharply. Their arms lay between them; his sword, her shield, pressed flush together from shoulder to elbow, then splitting apart before their hands could meet. Maybe it wasn’t exactly the most opportune time, but being so close to her made it apparent how captivating she was. Her eyes had little dashes of gray in them, a deep, cold blue like the dark night sky above them, dotted with stars. The damp of her hair paired with the chill had made an attractive flush spread out over her cheeks. This time, the thought of kissing her was welcome, if not fanciful. It was thick in its indistinction, a dizzy yearning that spread out inside of him, over his ribs and hilting sweetly between them, bone-deep and foggy. A pitiable boy’s vague fantasy, and nothing more.

“And have you admitted it?” she asked him in a hush. “Have you admitted that it was necessary? That you’re exactly where you need to be?”

It would have been simple enough to say yes, and to leave it there. “I’m trying,” came his admission, “Maker, am I trying.” He cracked a grin, hoping it looked more light hearted than he felt. “You have to admit, I have you at a disadvantage here. Imagine if it were Duncan in my stead: he’s been ─ he had been a Warden for years, and he had even more experience than that. He could have mentored you, the way I can’t. He’d know how to make more Wardens. It wouldn’t be just you and me struggling against an army. I’m stumbling here, in the dark. The blind leading the blind, as it were. You can’t rely on me the way you could have relied on Duncan.”

She didn’t blink. “I don’t believe that. That’s the furthest thing from the truth. You’re not as blind as you pretend to be.”

He _did_ blink. “I ─ I don’t pretend ─”

“Yes, you do. You say I can’t rely on you, on the very same evening you single handedly came for all of us; you alone broke from your demon in the Fade and traveled its paths, with wisdom you don’t give yourself credit for. You impressed your will onto it ─ you _commanded_ it, the Fade itself, while you walked its own halls, and it bent its knee to you. You put a throng of demons to your sword and they died by it. You’re a warrior of skill, Alistair.” Somewhere along the way, he could feel her knuckles against the back of his hand, and then her little finger pressed flush to his. “You’re well read, and you’re so clever. You figured it out before all of us. I couldn’t be here without you,” she said. “I _wouldn’t_ be here without you.”

The air in his lungs had escaped him in a silent rush, and he scoured her face for any hints of a lie, or a joke, or a platitude, and he found only open sincerity. “Oh,” he breathed, more laughter than voice, “you absolutely would. You could take that archdemon all by yourself, completely naked, armed with only a ladle.”

Her smile was like the sunrise; new and hopeful and brilliant, nearly too bright when he looked too long at it. “Why would I be naked?”

“To make it easier for the archdemon, obviously. Otherwise, it simply wouldn’t be a fair fight.” Boldly, he added, “Though that might make the battle . . . distracting.”

The way her brow cocked made something hot twist in his gut, and he had to fight the way his breath wanted to shudder out of him, shaky and flustered. “I thought I was alone in this scenario? Unless the archdemon finds human women _distracting.”_

“I only said you were fighting it by yourself. Maybe you have an audience full of lechers.”

She snorted. “And do you often imagine a crowd of people leering at me while I fight the archdemon, stripped to my skin and armed with a ladle?”

“Strange, the dreams I’ve been having. What can I say? Have you been having strange dreams?”

“Sure. I just had one where you and I kill my family,” she said, but her eyes were soft.

Alistair choked, just a little bit. “Ah. Right. I ─ Oh, would you look at that? I’m still so wounded. I think I have a fever. I’m delirious. I don’t even know what I’m saying.” She grinned, but he still felt compelled to add, “I wasn’t thinking. I apologize.”

“Don’t,” she said sweetly. “You’re a funny man, Alistair.”

He could feel a muscle in his jaw twitching in his attempt not to smile. “Am I?”

“You are. You’re funny, and charming, and skilled in battle, and so clever, and reliable. You’re so much more than you think you are.” When she tilted her head, he couldn’t help but admire the golden swath of her throat, exposed and clean and looking inviting enough to slot his mouth over. _“And_ you’re a lecher.”

“What ─ dear lady. You break my heart. You were being so nice and all. Such a cruel woman to butter me up, only to inflict the deepest of wounds upon me.” He grinned at her all the same. “A man can’t help what he dreams, can he? I’m in no control of my _wild_ imagination. Do you think you could ever forgive me, my friend?”

“It depends,” she said, “am I very beautiful in your dreams? Answer wisely, Alistair. This will determine whether I show you magnanimity or not.”

In his _dreams?_ What a ridiculous, pointless clarification. She was very beautiful all the time; even when she was sweaty from battle, flushed and clammy, even when she smiled at him and there was blood all over her teeth, even when her hand whipped up to cover her mouth in embarrassment when he laughed at her. He could have waxed poetic about her for hours . . . but he wouldn’t. That was a bridge too uncertain and too unfounded to cross; if he fell, it would be hard and fast, and it would kill him.

He told her in equal part anxiety and delight, “Yes.”

Gracefully, she didn’t press. She smiled at him, though, gentle and fond and meaningful. “You flatter me.”

“Somebody has to. I fear what you’d do to us all if it slipped our minds.” He was teasing, but the idea of her, of all people, finding those qualities in him was almost too much to bear ─ he wanted to be someone worthy of her appreciation. He wanted to be worthy. “You flattered me first. I’m simply retaliating.”

“I’m serious. Joke about it all you like, but you know it to be true. You’re indispensable. You’re my most valuable ally. I couldn’t be here without you. I wouldn’t be. Never.” The pull of her eyes was nigh impossible to escape, but he feared he might actually kiss her if he looked at her any longer, and he turned his face from her. Her voice was gentle, and if he had his way, he could have bottled it up forever, so that he might listen to it when his faith in himself was shaken. “I rely on you; sometimes I fear I do it too much. I relied on you at Ostagar, in the Wilds, in Lothering, here in the Circle . . . I’ve always relied on you. I wish you could see yourself the way I see you, Alistair.”

He mapped out what constellations he could remember from the books he’d read at the monastery, chest fit to bursting. The brush of their little fingers was tentative, but sanguine. Almost promising. Truthfully, he told her, “I think I might be starting to.”

**Author's Note:**

> CW for extremely light dubcon in Alistair's dream: the demon kisses him while disguised as the Warden, and he doesn't realize until after the fact!!! it's VERY brief and not at all graphic, but it does happen!! ok love u bye


End file.
